Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

Tents were alight with festivities in lantern glow, casting shadows of swaying drunkards singing heartily along with the folk band’s pipes. It was not quite dark yet, but the heavy, overcast sky reflected the fires from the wide field below. On the snaking river that ran along the stalls, some people were on rowboats, enjoying the quiet ripples of the glimmering water around them. Under the fringe of trees near the parking area, children were playing.

Sam heard the first dagger swoosh past his shoulder.

“Ai!” he yelled inadvertently. “Almost spilled my ale there!”

He heard the screaming women and men egging him on through the din of Moragh’s fans chanting her name. Somewhere in the madness, Sam heard a small group chanting “Knife the bampot! Knife the bampot!”

From Purdue there was no support, even when Sam turned around briefly to see where Moragh had shifted her aim. Wearing his family’s tartan on his kilt, Purdue was staggering through the mad lot in the direction of the clubhouse on the site.

“Traitor,” Sam slurred. He took another chug of his ale just as Moragh lifted her flabby arm to line the last of the three daggers. “Oh shit!” Sam exclaimed and tossed aside his tankard to make a run for the hillock by the river.

As he had dreaded, his inebriation served two purposes — delivery of humiliation and then the subsequent aptitude not to give a rat’s ass. His disorientation on the turn caused him to abandon his equilibrium and after only one leap forward his foot slapped the back of his other ankle, bringing him down onto the wet, loose grass and mud with a thump. Sam’s skull struck a rock buried in the long tufts of greenery and a bright flash pumped through his brain painfully. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, but he regained his consciousness instantaneously.

The velocity of his tumble sent his heavy kilt lashing forward when his body stopped short. On his lower back he could feel the awful confirmation of the upturned raiment. If that was not affirmation enough of the ensuing nightmare, the crisp air on his buttocks did the trick.

“Oh Christ! Not again,” he moaned through the smell of mud and manure as the roaring laughter of the crowd punished him. “On the upside,” he said to himself as he sat up, “in the morning I won’t remember this. That’s right! It won’t matter.”

But he was a terrible journalist for neglecting to remember that the flashing lights sporadically blinding him from a short distance away meant that even while he would forget the ordeal, pictures would prevail. For a moment Sam just sat there, wishing he had not been as painfully traditional; wishing he had worn briefs, or at least a thong! Moragh’s toothless mouth was wide open in laughter as she wobbled closer to collect him.

“Dun’t ya worreh, sweeteh!” she chuckled. “Those’r nee the werst eyv seen!”

With one swift movement the stout lass pulled him to his feet. Sam was too drunk and nauseous to fight her off as she dusted his kilt off and copped a feel while she helped herself to a bit of comedy at his expense.

“Oi! Eh, lady…” he blundered his words. His arms flailed like a drugged flamingo as he tried to recover his composure. “Watch yer hands there!”

“Sam! Sam!” he heard from somewhere inside the bubble of cruel mocking and whistling coming from the big grey tent.

“Purdue?” he called, searching the thick muddy lawn for his tankard.

“Sam! Come, we have to go! Sam! Stop playing around with the fat woman!” Purdue staggered along, slurring as he neared.

“What ye seh?” Moragh shouted at the insult. Scowling, she left Sam’s side to give Purdue her full attention.

“Some ice on that, mate?” the bartender asked Purdue.

Sam and Purdue had entered the clubhouse on wavering legs after most of the people had already vacated their seats, opting to go outside and see the flame eaters during the drum show.

“Aye! Ice for both of us,” Sam cried, holding the side of his head where the stone had connected. Purdue swaggered by his side, arm held aloft to order two meads while they nursed their injuries.

“My God, that woman hits like Mike Tyson,” Purdue remarked, as he pressed the ice pack against his right brow, the place where Moragh’s first shot had marked her discontent at his uttering. Her second had landed just short of his left cheekbone, and Purdue could not help but be just a tad impressed at her combination.

“Well, she throws knives like an amateur,” Sam chipped in, as he clenched the glass in his hand.

“You do know that she did not really aim to hit you, right?” the barman reminded Sam. He gave it some thought and retorted, “But then, she is daft to make such a wager. I won double my money back.”

“Aye, but she bet against herself at four times the odds, laddie!” the barman cackled heartily. “She didn’t get this reputation by being stupid, eh?”

“Ha!” Purdue exclaimed, his eyes glued to the TV screen behind the bar. It was the very reason he had come looking for Sam in the first place. Something he saw on the news earlier had struck him as reason for concern, and he wanted to sit there until the bulletin repeated so he could show Sam.

On the next hour the screen displayed exactly what he had been waiting for. He edged forward, knocking over some glasses on the counter. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Look, Sam! Isn’t that the hospital where our dear Nina is at the moment?”

Sam watched the reporter talk about the drama that had hit the well-known hospital just hours before. It alarmed him instantly. The two men exchanged looks of concern.

“We have to go and get her, Sam,” Purdue insisted.

“If I were sober I would go right now, but we can’t travel to Germany in this state,” Sam lamented.

“That’s not a problem, my friend,” Purdue smiled in his usual mischievous way. He lifted his glass and emptied the last bit of alcohol from it. “I have a private jet and a crew who can fly us there while we sleep it off. Much as I’m reluctant to fly to Detlef’s neck of the woods again, this is Nina we are speaking of.”

“Aye,” Sam agreed. “I don’t want her staying there one more night. Not if I can help it.”

Purdue and Sam left the festivities, thoroughly shitfaced and somewhat knackered by cuts and scratches, determined to get their heads cleared and come to the aid of the other third of their social alliance.

As the night fell over the Scottish coast they left in their trail the jovial abandon, listening to the bagpipes fade. It was a harbinger of more serious things, where their momentary recklessness and fun would have to give way to the urgent rescue of Dr. Nina Gould, who was sharing space with a loose killer.

Nina was terrified. She’d slept through most of the morning and early afternoon, but Dr. Fritz had her taken to the examination room for her eye tests as soon as the police had allowed them to move around. The ground floor was being heavily guarded both by police as well as the on-site security company who had sacrificed two of their men during the night. The second floor was off-limits for anyone not confined there, or the medical staff.

“You’re fortunate you were able to sleep through all the madness, Dr. Gould,” Nurse Marx told Nina as she came to check on her in the evening.

“I don’t even know what happened, really. There were security men killed by an intruder?” Nina frowned. “That’s what I was able to make out by the drips and drabs of what was discussed. Nobody could tell me what the hell is really going on.”

Marlene looked around to make sure nobody saw her telling Nina the details.