Ignominy
The house looked forlorn and neglected as I made my way up
the drive. Its windows were gray with dust that the autumn gales had blown from
the road. I noticed that the grass needed cutting and the bushes in the garden,
trimming. I made a mental note to contact the gardener and book him for a
visit.
The key slid into the lock and I turned it together with the
handle. With an audible sigh from the hinges the door swung open. An odour of
boiled cabbage and mould assailed my nose as I advanced through the hall. I
would have to get in touch with the cleaning firm that worked for us. They
would have to install air fresheners if this property was ever going to sell.
I entered the kitchen and pulled a chair out from where it
sat under the table. Collapsing onto it, I pulled a thermos flask out of my bag
and poured myself a cup of coffee. I looked about me as I sipped the hot
liquid. Why, I thought, could I not get a buyer for this property?
Mr Robertson, the previous owner had died at the venerable
age of ninety six and his family had wished for a quick sale to allow them to
share out the money. That was two years ago!
I had shown umpteen couples, families, single people and potential
landlords around and although they all were excited with the house and promised
an immediate offer, no one replied after they had left! I even rang a few up,
but got fobbed off with weak excuses and supposed ‘change of hearts’.
My name was Sam Dyer and I worked for Durham
and Durham , an
estate agency. I was an old hand at the house selling game and this was why
this property, 17, Falcern Place ,
was becoming a millstone round my neck. I had boasted, two years ago, to my
boss, Graham Durham, that I could sell water to a drowning man and he had asked
me to prove it, by selling this property. This ruddy albatross!
Well, I had pulled all the stops out and went out of my way
to expose as many punters to this attractive property. Extolling its
attributes, boasting of its potential and generally over rating its qualities,
but would it sell? No, it wouldn’t.
I sighed and drained the final few drops of coffee. Tomorrow,
I decided, I would have the printers print several ‘flyers’ with descriptions
of the rooms and a picture of 17, Falcern Place on it and I would have them
distributed round the neighbourhood. I knew this was last ditch tactics, but
surely I could interest someone out there in this desirable residence.
The week before, I had sold three properties; but 17, Falcern Road still
sat stubbornly on my register. Oh, we had had a few nibbles in response to my flyers, but, after twenty four hours
of leaving, the responses had turned decidedly lukewarm.
Later I was visiting our local supermarket for a few
necessities. I tended to have a crisis management style of shopping. I waited
until I had nothing to eat or drink- then I went to the shops. I usually bought
just enough to tide me over for a few days.
“Look, Mummy,” a child’s voice rang out. “There’s the man
who tried to sell us that spooky house!”
I turned and saw a little girl standing in one of the aisles
pointing at me. Her parents stood just behind her and as I watched they
suddenly developed an intense interest in the various cereals on sale.
“Hi Mr Blair!” I shouted loudly and approached him holding
out my hand.
“Oh, Mr Dyer……” he muttered looking a little shame faced.
“How are you?”
We stood and chewed the fat for a few minutes until 17, Falcern Place
raised its inevitable head.
“It was a superb property,” agreed Mr Blair. “The price was
just a little too high for us.”
“I could drop the price for you,” I countered. “What would
you be willing to offer?”
“Oh, I don’t know…..” Mr Blair said hesitantly. “What do you
think dear?”
He turned to a little mousy like woman who I took to be Mrs
Blair. She had a worried look and her voice wavered as she replied. “I really
wouldn’t like to make any decision…..”
“Tell them about the ghost!” the little girl shouted and her
mother and father began hushing her and telling her to be quiet.
“What ghost?” I asked, shocked that a property of mine could
be haunted.
Mr Blair blushed quite violently and with a laugh he shook
his head.
“There is no ghost, Mr Dyer. It is just our imagination!”
What I managed to extract from the Blair family was that the
night after visiting 17, Falcern
Place , all three of them had been beset by
nightmares relating to the property.
Although none of them remembered everything clearly, they
all knew they were in the house and had seen ‘something’ which had filled them
with dread.
“It was probably something we all ate,” Mrs Blair suggested,
although I knew that that was not the case.
* * *
Mr Robertson, Mr Sebastian Robertson, the previous owner of
17, Falcern Place. ,
had led a chequered life. After leaving school at the age of fifteen, he had
joined the Army and after receiving basic training had been drafted to an Army
camp in the town of Danlang in India to serve
with the 35th Hussar Lancers. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant
within two years and had requested that he remain in that country when his
peers had been drafted elsewhere. Danlang was such a ‘hell hole’ that
Robertson’s superiors were more than happy to grant his request and drafted
some raw ‘squaddies’ in to man the camp.
One night as Robertson was making his rounds he overheard
some of his men planning a midnight foray out of the camp. He stepped out of
the shadows and the group of four men fell silent. Upon demanding to know where
they had intended to go, the weakest member of the four, a man called Delcher, admitted
that they had intended to visit the nearest Zoroastrinist cemetery to steal
jewels from the bodies laid on the Towers of Silence.
The tradition of the Zorastrians deems that a dead body is
unclean and to avoid polluting the Earth the dead are placed atop Towers of
Silence and so exposed to the sun and to birds of prey are reduced to bones.
Many of the dead are bedecked out in their best clothes and
finery including jewellery, to display to the world their wealth and social
standing.
Sadly the Towers and their affluent corpses drew thieves
like bees to a honey pot and due to their often remote position, the cemeteries
were difficult to guard.
Lieutenant Sebastian Robertson’s ears had pricked up when Delcher
described the amount of precious stones that could be available, if the higher
caste families in Danlang had suffered bereavements. If a person could keep a
cool head while stealing from corpses, that person could be set financially for
life.
Robertson liked the sound of this and agreed to allow the
men to go AWOL if he could be given a share of the booty. Delcher and his
colleagues grudgingly conceded to the plan and the division of the spoils and
at midnight they set off to the far side of the town. They returned just before
dawn and Robertson could see that two of the group carried large sacks on their
shoulders. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
The jewels lay sparkling in the
lamplight. Robertson had taken receipt of his share during the morning but had
left off inspecting them until he had carried out evening rounds. There were
rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pieces of gold mixed in with jewelled brooches
and pendants. A king’s ransom.
Robertson
rapidly converted his share into currency and began sending it to his home
address in Britain .
His spinster sister had lived there since their parents had died. She put the
envelopes unopened into a cupboard to await her brother Sebastian’s eventual
return.
The day
arrived two years later when the Army decided to close the barracks at Danlang
and draft the personnel back to Britain .
By that time Robertson and his four man team had acquired a fortune for
themselves, but as with all greedy people Robertson had to have a ‘little
more’. He approached Delcher without the other three knowing and laid out the
plan for a final visit to the cemetery before they left for Blighty.
Robertson
knew that a powerful man had died several days before. His palace lay on the
outskirts of Danlang, but he being of the Zoroastrinist faith, his earthly
remains would be deposited on one of the Towers of Silence frequently visited
by Robertson’s group.
The sky was
strange dark purple colour as the two men approached the cemetery. The Towers,
three in number, rose out of the desert floor, standing tall and proud. High
above in the sky several vultures circled awaiting their carrion meal.
Delcher
threw a grapnel attached to a rope up and it hooked on a piece of the tower’s
crenulations. Before climbing up, the soldier tested the rope by yanking on it.
It held fast and he pulled himself up and was soon at the parapet. He looked
down at his lieutenant and gave a thumbs up. Robertson took a firm grip and
began climbing.
He had
forgotten how much effort it took to pull one’s body weight up a rope and
before he reached where Delcher waited, Robertson had made a mental promise to
himself to exercise more – and eat less!
The body
lay on the wall amid other cadavers in varying states of putrefaction and
decay. The vultures and the blazing hot sun had taken their toll on the
congregation of the dead and Robertson and Delcher could see the odd bits of
jewellery giving off twinkles of light.
After
pulling the obvious rings, brooches and pendants off the man’s clothes,
Robertson began to check his pockets and inside his burial garb. Far off the
men could hear peals of thunder and as they watched a gibbous moon was blotted
out by a very dark cloud. A flash of lightning lit up the hillside behind the
town.
While
Delcher began to push the stolen items into a bag Robertson decided to have one
more look inside the dead man’s clothes. He pulled the jacket back and there
around the waist of the corpse was a thick webbed belt. Without a thought
Robertson pulled out a knife and cut the belt free. It fell to the ground with
a thud.
Using his
knife again Robertson snatched up the belt and cut into the webbing. Carefully
he turned the belt upside down and a large dark red jewel fell into his hand.
The
flashing lightning reflected into the precious stone’s heart and reflected a
thousand times giving the impression that the stone was alive.
Both
Delcher and Robertson jumped with fear when the corpse of the man who they had
robbed gave a loud groan of almost relief and slid to the floor amidst the
skeletal remains.
The journey
back to the Army barracks was nightmarish. The thunder rolled, the lightning
forked down to the ground and the rain fell in sheets. As soon as Robertson got
back and had hidden the dark jewel deep in his kitbag he fell into bed and a
dreamless sleep.
The next
morning the detachment left the barracks never to return.
*
* *
The coffee
was steaming as it arrived with the piece of carrot cake. I was treating myself
after the successful sale of two ‘bijou’ flats at non ‘bijou’ prices. Yes, life
was good and I felt great. The waitress looked at me strangely as she laid down
my bill.
“What are
you smiling about?” she asked. “Won the Lottery?”
“Good as,”
I replied, calculating what sort of tip I would leave this angel of mercy.
I picked up
a newspaper from the neighbouring table which was vacant. The headlines spelt
out doom and gloom and I quickly turned to the sport section. My local team had
been beaten in the Cup finals and it looked like relegation for them.
I arrived
back at my office at about two o’clock and opened the mail. It consisted of
four advertisements, one circular offering cleaning staff and two bills.
I wrote all
the details of the flat sales on my computer and made hard copies for my files.
As I opened the drawer in the filing cabinet I spotted the address of 17 Falcern Place and
my good humour slipped away. Would I ever get this property sold?
* * *
Dyrak Khan
stood in the shadows cast by the trees on the side of the road opposite Falcern Place . He
was watching no.17 for any movement in the windows, but all seemed quiet. Dyrak
had come a long way and was on a mission of great importance that had been
ordered by the Master of his temple. A great wrong had to be corrected while
the time was right.
* * *
It was
about midnight when I arrived at 17
Falcern Place . I was carrying a sleeping bag, a
flask of coffee and a detective novel in my rucksack. I intended to spend the
night in this house and see if I could see any ghosts. Imagine, one of my
properties – haunted!
I slammed
the front door shut with a bang and tried to decide where I would set up my
‘camp’. The lounge seemed the most obvious place so without further ado I
spread the sleeping bag out and sat down on it while I poured myself a coffee.
As it got
dark the wind picked up and several branches tapped at the windows. Mental note
to myself; bring a pair of branch loppers with me next visit.
Just before
midnight I climbed into my sleeping bag and settled down with my book. I had
been round and round the house checking and rechecking windows and doors. Each
time I looked they were locked tight, but if the supernatural was involved,
anything could happen.
I must have dozed off about one
o’clock and suddenly found myself standing at the bottom of a small valley. The
sun was high in the sky and the temperature was high. I felt sweat trickle down
my neck. The floor of the valley was covered with bones, both human and animal
and I could see by their brittle condition that they were old.
“You have come to Assigar!” boomed
out a voice from above me. “You stand among my subjects – the dead!”
I shaded my eyes and looked up to
where I thought the voice was coming from and saw a very tall dark figure
holding its hands high above its head.
“Who are you?” I shouted. “Why have
you brought me here?”
The figure vanished from above me and
reappeared in front of me out of a sulphurous cloud of smoke. It stood seven
foot high, as skinny as a bean pole and its flesh writhed over the surface of
its body. I cringed in terror before it.
“You will do my bidding!” It screamed
at me. “You have been chosen to bear my glory!”
I woke
tangled up in the sleeping bag. I felt that I was trying to escape from a
shroud and the imagery made me scream. I went through to the bathroom and
washed my face with some cold water. It woke me up and as I rubbed my face with
an old towel I discovered in one of the cupboards, I tried to remember the
content of the dream.There had been a lot of old bones. A valley and a black
figure. Mercifully my brain had forgotten the other details and I felt my eyes
growing heavy. I was soon back in my sleeping bag and drifted off to sleep.
This time I was in an ancient
cemetery. The wind swept a mixture of dust, dried bone and old wood about.
There was a perfume of putrefaction mixed with grave scents of sandalwood,
myrrh and frankincense in the air. The site seemed remote and poorly visited.
Stones lay at angles and many were shattered resembling broken teeth.
I looked across the surface of the
necropolis and saw a dark shadow undulating between the gravestones. It was
very tall and gave out a feeling of revulsion.
I fell to the ground and cringed
behind a large tomb. The whole area exuded a feeling of death and damnation.
The true end for all that was evil. A heat rose from the ground as the
chemistry of dissolution continued below ground.
“You are a vessel for my being!” the
dark entity screeched as it stood over me. “Bow slave, before your master!”
I saw the being turn to a flowing
liquid and all at once poured from the air towards me. I raised my hands to
fend it off and caused the flow to deflect. It shot through the air and formed
once again into the pillar of squirming darkness.
“You do not have it!” It screamed
furiously. “It has not touched you to allow my entry!”
The creature rose screeching into the
air and was gone, leaving me alone in this city of the departed.
It was five
a.m. when I next awoke and I decided enough was enough. These dreams were
leading somewhere and it wasn’t where I wanted to go. I poured a cup of
lukewarm coffee out of my flask and sat pondering the night’s occurrences. There
was definitely something in the 17
Falcern Place and it was not good.
Once again
I went around the house looking for anything untoward in any of the rooms, but
they were just empty rooms, the relations of the late owner having taken
everything movable from the house.
Then I
started tapping on walls, peering into air ducts and generally giving the place
a good ‘shakedown’, but I did not find any hollowed out spaces, and apart from
‘dust bunnies’ the ducts were empty.
My next
port of call was the attic. A classical if not gothic situation which
historically hid ‘skeletons’ out of several families’ cupboards.
The cobwebs
hung thick from the roof space and I swore I saw traces of mouse damage in the
odd bits of paper that lay scattered on the floor. I held my torch tightly and
focussed its beam around the space. There were boxes containing bits of fabric
and others holding old newspapers.
“OK,” I
whispered to myself. “Where should I look?”
The wood on
the floor must have been full of worm for as I stepped forward my foot went
through the panel and I avoided pushing my foot through the ceiling below by
falling backwards.
“Yuk!” I
grunted as I carefully pulled my foot out. I scrabbled forward and pointed my
torch beam into the hole to check for any damage to the plaster below. That was
when I discovered Mr or should I say, Lieutenant Sebastian Robertson’s journal.
I carefully removed the mouldering volume from its hiding place and carefully
carried it down stairs.
The wind was howling round the house as my made a pot of tea
for myself. The weather forecast was for heavy rain later and I decided just to
settle down for the evening in Falcern
Place rather than make a miserable journey over to
my own house on the other side of town. I made a fire up with some sticks I
found in the shed and by stoking it up with some dross and a pair of logs I soon
had cheery looking flames.
“I am not proud of myself,” the journal began and I realised
that Robertson was making a sort of confession possibly knowing that due to its
concealment, the journal would not come to light till long after his death.
What had he done, I asked myself? Was it something that I would have to report
to the police? A crime committed?
I sat aghast as I read about his ‘mission’ into the Zoroastrinist
cemetery almost seventy years before. The theft of the jewellery from the
corpses, the sacrilege of disturbing the dead and the illegal possession of the
‘dark jewel’. He had been guilty of grave robbing while in a position of
responsibility and betrayed the trust put in him by the local people.
“The Thing has haunted me day and night, to provide it with
blood and before I began stealing cats and dogs from the area, I was supplying
it with my own, but I was becoming faint and ill from the exsanguination. After
providing it with some of dog’s blood and It not noticing the difference, I
decided that It was non discerning about the source of the blood and began supplying
it with animal’s blood.” So this volume of the journal finished and I realised
that I had let my tea go cold as I sat engrossed in the content.
Eager for some fresh air I went out to the front door and
threw it open letting the rain and wind in. I felt it was cleansing me from the
atrocious account in Robertson’s journal.
It was then that I noticed that there was a figure standing
in the shadows across the road. The bushes and trees were being whipped about
by the gale and the person was not always visible. Something took my attention
away for a second and when I checked for the figure, it was gone.
It was with a troubled mind that I crawled into my sleeping
bag that night. I knew sleep would not come easily and if it did I was sure
that I would have more nightmares.
I
stood high on a mountain and below me a precipice yawned. Far off the sky was
turning blood red and the breeze smelt of putrefaction. Dark smoke was rising
into air and I knew that this was Earth’s end, the Armageddon. I knew that I
had been instrumental in its coming, but had no memory of how or why. High
above my head hung a large figure with vulture – like wings.
“Take
hold of the jewel!” It screamed. “I thirst for blood!”
My head felt twice its size when I awoke and the headache
pounding inside was monumental. I rolled out of bed and grunted as my feet hit
the floor. What had I been drinking? I was experiencing a hangover the size of
an elephant, but I couldn’t remember doing anything to deserve it.
The door bell rang and I instinctively told it to be quiet,
but it rang again as if to laugh at my condition.
“Yes?” I said as I threw the door open revealing a small
black man. He was dressed in European clothing but I could see him looking far
more at home in a boubou which I understood to be a loose fitting robe. On his
head I imagined a fez or some flowing headgear. “Yes?” I repeated.
“You are the owner of this house?” the small man asked
politely.
“I am in the process of selling it, Mr …” I paused to allow
him to fill the necessary information in.
“I am Alamis Gibaren,” he said quietly. “You have a problem
with this property.” It wasn’t a question; he knew that all was not well in Falcern Place .
“Well…” I started to say. “The house is in need of some
renovation and repair.”
“Not the physical aspects of the house, but its soul is in
jeopardy, sir” he said, looking into my face.
I knew in my heart of hearts that this man, Alamis Gibaren
was spot on with his diagnosis, but was this cloud cuckoo land or what?
“Thank you for your information Mr Gibaren,” I started to
say swinging the door shut. “If I need help with the house’s soul, I will give you a call.”
His foot shot forward and blocked the closure of the door.
“Please listen to me Mr Dyer, if you value your life!”
Alamis stood in the kitchen and gazed out at the overgrown
garden. He looked very worried and I knew that I had been right to let him in.
He obviously knew something and I felt that it was important.
“Mr Dyer, many years ago, something of great value was
stolen from the body of one of out priests as his body lay in the Tower of Silence
“But Alamis, what is it that was stolen?” I asked trying to
establish whether the jewel referred to in Mr Robertson’s journal was the item
of ‘great value’.
“A jewel, Mr Dyer.” Alamis replied. “Not used for
decoration, but for containment.”
“To contain …what?” I asked hesitantly.
“The demon Zarrian,” was his reply. “One of the Outer Circle
entities.”
I rang out for a pizza and as we were waiting for it to be
delivered Alamis brought me up to speed on the hierarchy of demons. It sounded
real gobbledegook to me but I knew that there had been a jewel stolen, the
thief had lived in this house and there was definite ‘something not right’
about this abode.
“We must find the jewel and then somehow encourage Zarrian
to return to within its containment.” Alamis said as he scratched some symbols
on the floor. “These are part of an invocation to call Zarrian, but without the
jewel It would destroy us.”
For the next few hours Alamis and I searched the house from
the attic to the cellar, but we found nothing. I had explained to Alamis that I
had already scoured throughout and had been successful, but he assured me that
the jewel was here and that he may see something that I had missed, but it was
not to be.
“There is nothing else for it,” he said pulling a small
paper packet out from his inside pocket. “I know that this will find the
jewel.” He began to empty a rusty coloured powder onto the floor next to the crude
symbols that he drawn earlier.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “This won’t call up the demon, will it?”
“No,” said Alamis. “It will just show us where the jewel
lies.” Taking a box of matches out of his pocket, Alamis struck and ignited a
match, then applied it to the pile of powder. A greenish coloured smoke rose
off it and began to swirl through the air.
“That stinks!” I shouted holding my nose with my fingers. “I
hope it works.”
The plume of smoke stayed together and behaved rather like a
cobra. It swayed to and fro and moved up and down the walls before moving on
through to the living room. Alamis and I trailed behind it hoping that it would
find something before the pile burnt out.
“There!” shouted Alamis triumphantly pointing at where the
smoke had stopped. It prodded at an area of plaster which looked on the surface
quite ordinary, but on closer inspection displayed a slightly different colour
to the surrounding wall. I drew a cross on the wall with a pen.
After ten minutes of scraping and gouging at the wall we
disclosed a niche that had been cut into the wall behind the plaster. A small
box lay within the gap. I reached in and brought it out. It looked fairly
normal and I made to open it.
“Don’t open it!” shouted Alimas grabbing it out of my hand.
“You must not touch it or Zarrian can take control of you.”
Suddenly I remembered the dreams where the creature demanded
I touch the jewel. This was why. Had it not been for Alimas, I would be facing
a life like Robertson, that of finding sources of blood for the demon till my
death.
Now we can entrap the demon for all time” whispered Alamis.
“He would have begun with you and then called his army through to join him to
ravage the Earth.”
“But what stopped him bringing them through when Robertson
had the jewel?” I asked.
“Robertson stole the stone from the body of a very powerful
magician who had the demon in his thrall,” explained Alimas. “The period of
time during which the demon could be kept supine by the presentation of blood
is over. Zarrian will haunt your dreams, wearying you until in desperation you
seize the jewel in your open hand and then with the magician’s thraldom gone,
Zarrian will take over the earth with his hordes.”
The next night we decided to make an attempt to bridle the
demon. Ariman drew various symbols on the floor of the lounge and lit small
lamps which burnt with a sweet smell.
I stood outside the house looking up at a full moon which
seemed to sail in an endless sea of clouds. A quiet night, without even a
breeze to ruffle the trees.
“Mr Dyer!” came Ariman’s voice from within the house. “It is
time!”
I was placed to the south of the room and Ariman stood to
the North. He began to chant quietly and the atmosphere in the room began to
change. It felt as if a cold wind blew through the area and the sweet smell of
the lamps changed to a smell of putrescence and rot.
“He is close! The beast is close!” called Ariman.
It was suddenly as if all time had stopped. I thought that I
had gone deaf, for the silence was absolute. The lamps flames flickered and
then went out and darkness fell. We had left the curtains open but even the
friendly glow of the moon failed to penetrate the gloom.
“Zarrian! Zarrian! I command you to appear!” Ariman’s
strident voice cut through the impenetrable feel of the room. “Do you hear me,
Zarrian?”
A large dark figure suddenly materialised in the centre of
the inscribed symbols on the floor. It grew and grew till its head was rubbing
the ceiling.
“Mortals! Why have you drawn me here? Do you wish to die?”
the dark figure roared.
Ariman immediately picked up a small wand and pointing it at
the creature called Zarrian began to chant and swing his wand round and round
above his head.
“You think this chicanery will dominate ME? Zarrian
screeched. “I have the power to destroy you little men!”
“I command you to obey my will Zarrian,” cried out Ariman
and he slowly opened the box in which the purple jewel lay.
“I knew you had the gem!” screamed the demon. “Now one of
you, take hold of it and release me!”
From the other side of the room I could see that Ariman was
beginning to lose the unequal battle. Sweat ran down his face and he looked
exhausted.
“Ariman!” I cried. “What can I do? Tell me so that I can
help you.”
“Mr Dyer, it is too late for me. The demon is more powerful
than I realised. There is only one way that he can be contained for a thousand
years and this is what we must do.” I was aghast at what he proposed but Ariman
knew what to do and… well I was just an extra in this divine production.
Throwing down the box onto the floor at Zarrian’s feet, the
jewel was exposed and shone like an evil eye from its setting in the box.
Quick as a flash Ariman pulled a knife from his pocket and
cut deeply into his arm. A spray of arterial blood shot out and by twisting
himself, Ariman directed the flow onto the jewel coating it and the box with
blood.
The creature Zarrian gave a loud shriek and started to
elongate until his dark form was intertwining with the stream of Ariman’s
blood. Black and red it twisted and fell becoming one jet as it neared the
jewel. Then it was flowing into the
jewel, the stone seemed to be greedily absorbing the liquid taking it into
itself. Containing it.
Ariman collapsed on the floor and I knew that the man was
dead. He had given his life for me and humanity.
After the police had come, the ambulance had taken Ariman’s
body away and I had given a statement which explained that I had no knowledge
how the person had entered the empty house, but that he had obviously been
seriously deranged and had committed suicide after involving himself in some
hocus pocus.
The police sergeant was standing outside looking very
puzzled when I came out of 17
Falcern Place and locked the front door.
“You know Mr Dyer, the only thing that puzzles me is the
lack of blood. The corpse was almost completely exsanguinated and yet apart
from a few puddles there was no other blood visible. I wonder what really happened.”
The rest of the story is fairly ordinary. I got a cleaning
crew in to the house followed by a painter and his mate and a couple of
gardeners and 17 Falcern Place
was off my books within the month. A family took it over and as far as I know
had no problems with it.
As for the jewel, I took it safely in its box on a cruise
across the Atlantic to America .
I reckoned that I deserved a little holiday and…well I was only indirectly
obeying orders- those of Ariman’s.
Reaching, where one of the ship’s officers said was the
deepest part of the ocean; I hurtled the box with its crystalline prison into
the water and watched it sink down into the depths. Goodbye, Zarrian or maybe
just au revoir?
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