Shaun Hutson - Heathen/Nemesis

‘To hell with the police,’ Donna snapped.

‘Wasn’t there something in Chris’s notes about destroying the book?’ Julie asked.

‘“Destroy the book and you destroy them”,’ Donna muttered, as if she’d learned the words by heart. ‘And you think they’re going to let us walk in and do that without a fight?’

The two women regarded each other across the table. Julie’s eyes roved over her sister’s outfit. The two shoulder-holsters she wore looked strangely incongruous.

Beneath one arm she carried the Beretta. As Julie watched, she slid the .357 into the other holster.

‘Mrs Rambo,’ Julie said almost scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?’

Donna eyed her malevolently.

‘People are going to die, Julie,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe you and me, too.’ There was angry resignation in her voice. ‘But who cares?’

She got to her feet, glancing at her watch.

It was 7.46 p.m.

Eighty-Six

The drive into Central London took less than fifty minutes. Traffic was relatively light, even in the centre, and Julie parked the Fiesta on the corner of Conduit Street and Mill Street.

‘It’s not too late to stop this bloody insanity,’ Julie said, looking at her sister.

‘We’ll leave the car here,’ Donna said, ignoring her.

She reached beneath her jacket and gently touched the butts of each gun in turn.

‘We don’t even know which house it is,’ Julie protested.

There weren’t many to pick from. Most of the buildings that occupied the street were shops or offices, their stonework grimy with years of accumulated muck. Donna gazed at the frontages of the buildings, her eyes finally coming to rest on a dark brick edifice sandwiched between a jeweller and a travel agent.

‘From Chris’s notes, it has to be that one,’ she said.

The house had three stone steps leading up to its black front door. There were two windows downstairs, three on the first floor. Shutters were pulled tight across all of them, preventing prying eyes from seeing in. A length of iron railings ran in front of the building, some of them rusted, the paint having peeled away. Stone steps led down to a basement.

‘What do we do? Just ring the doorbell?’ Julie asked cryptically.

‘There has to be a back way in,’ Donna mused, studying the other structures nearby. She saw what appeared to be a narrow passageway leading alongside a building about twenty yards down the street. ‘Come on,’ she said and swung herself out of the car, leaving Julie to follow.

They hurried across the street towards the passage, Donna pausing briefly before stepping into the dark walkway. It smelt of stale urine. Donna wrinkled her nose as she made her way along, with Julie close behind her.

The passageway opened out into a large, square yard. Surrounded on all sides by buildings, it had a claustrophobic atmosphere. Donna shivered involuntarily as she moved over the damp concrete towards the rear of the house.

Another heavy wooden door confronted them, and two ground floor windows. The building appeared to be in darkness. No sounds came from inside, either.

‘It’s not this house,’ Julie said flatly.

Donna moved closer to the window and slid her fingers carefully beneath the sash frame.

To her surprise it moved slightly.

She tried again and a gap about two feet wide opened.

Wide enough for them to slip through.

Donna hesitated.

This was a little too easy, wasn’t it?

Perhaps they were expected.

And yet, as she’d said to Julie before, as far as Dashwood and the others were concerned both women had died in the waxworks.

And yet ...

Could it be a trick?

‘Do we go in?’ Julie wanted to know, her heart thumping that little bit faster.

A trick?

They had to take that chance.

Donna eased the window up a fraction more, then swung herself over the sill and into the room beyond.

Julie followed.

The woman lay on a rug in the centre of the floor.

She was naked.

So was the man who lay beside her.

The room was silent apart from their low breathing.

The watchers made no sound.

The man finally looked up, as if seeking permission to begin.

Francis Dashwood, seated at a long oak table at one end of the room, nodded slowly, a crooked smile on his face.

As the man in the centre of the room moved onto the woman, his erection bobbing before him, a great cheer arose.

As he thrust hard into her a chorus of hand-clapping and cat-calls accompanied his actions.

The noise began to build to a crescendo. In the brightly lit room sweat glistened on the couple in the centre of the floor.

Donna stood in the darkened room, listening for any sounds of movement. Apart from Julie scrambling through the window, there were none.

Donna closed it behind her.

‘No alarms?’ Donna mused quietly.

Julie didn’t answer. She was squinting around the room, trying to pick out details in the gloom.

The walls were oak-panelled, hung with large paintings in ornate frames. Shelf after shelf of books loomed from the blackness on two sides of them. There was a fusty smell inside the room; it reminded Donna of the odour from the Grimoire. Ancient paper, now yellowing, expelled its stench like decaying flesh. There were four or five high-backed leather chairs in the room, too; the arms were worn, the furniture very old.

On the other side of the room was another door.

Donna moved towards it. Julie followed, glancing up at the stuffed birds that lowered down from the corners of the room like silent sentinels. She recognized the birds as hawks.

There was a strip of light beneath the door and Donna paused, wondering what lay beyond the wooden partition. She could hear no sound from beyond. Even the noise of traffic passing down Conduit Street outside was barely audible, so thick were the walls of the dwelling.

She knelt, trying to see through the keyhole, desperate to know what lay beyond.

She could see nothing.

Just that strip of light beneath it.

Again, almost unconsciously, she allowed one hand to stray inside her jacket and brush against the butt of the .357.

If there was anyone beyond this door she would be ready for them.

She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

Eighty-Seven

It looked like a hallway.

As Donna eased the door open and peered through she saw a large area of black-and-white tiled floor with three doors leading off it. To the right was a staircase. The hallway was twenty feet across, perhaps a little more. It was brightly lit by two enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the ornate ceiling. Donna could see the clusters of lights reflected in the tiles.

There were no shadows in which to hide.

She eased the door open a fraction more and looked round at the staircase. It looked like bare mahogany. No carpet covered the highly polished wood. The walls were a dark colour completely devoid of decoration of any kind. Not one single painting hung either in the hallway or on the stairs.

Donna eased the .357 from her shoulder holster and steadied it in her hands.

‘What are you doing?’ Julie wanted to know.

‘We’ve got to get across that hall,’ Donna told her. ‘If anyone comes out of any of those doors, I want to be ready.’

She took a step out into the brightly lit hall.

Her eyes darted back and forth over the three doors, then up the stairs. She inclined her head, a signal for Julie to follow her towards the stairs.

Donna’s eyes never left the top of the flight as they climbed; Julie kept her attention riveted to the doors.