Austerley & Kirgordon Adventures Box Set Page 2

  Austerley stopped speaking and went back to staring intently at the brook. Farthington gave Kirkgordon a look which said: Is that it? A shrug of the shoulders replied: How should I know? There was a half-minute of calm and tranquillity with only the babbling of the brook. Then Kirkgordon’s breath pulsed quicker and built like a string crescendo before the awaited outburst.

  “And what does this have to do with anything?”

  If incredulity could be delivered in a look then Austerley was a master postman. After dismissing Kirkgordon as clown number one, Austerley stared questioningly into the eyes of the British agent. Finding no response, generosity compelled him to elucidate for the feebler minded.

  “Zahn lived at the Rue d’Auseil. This is an abuse of the French language, collapsing the original ‘au seuil’, translated as ‘at the threshold’. The street is seen as being on the cusp of somewhere else. And ‘Улица на пороге’ is how they say it in Russian.” Austerley, instead of glorying in his victory, became drawn. His face had lost its red glow and had turned a dull pale.

  “What is it?” Farthington sensed the feeling of unease.

  “Zahn is believed gone. Anyhow, he cannot tell anyone anything, being a mute, and one that was unstable in mind. So what do they want?”

  “The music. It has to be the music.” Kirkgordon was now standing, as if this enlightening of the audience signified his full emergence onto the academic scene.

  “Of course it’s the bloody music! But why?” Farthington snapped. Kirkgordon, chastised, sat down.

  Austerley stared at the brook. After a few seconds he stood up and walked to the edge of the bank, deep in thought. Suddenly, he whipped his head round to stare at Farthington with a look of horror. The agent had seen enough people under extreme fear to recognise the look of hopelessness that was forming on Austerley’s face.

  “What, Austerley?” came the gentle whisper from the string-puller.

  “The music either protected Zahn from the darkness that came, or he played with it, in a sort of malevolent orchestra. So, either someone wants protection from this darkness which means either it’s coming very shortly or it’s already here. Or, …”

  “They want to play with it,” murmured Kirkgordon, “which means either it’s here or they want to summon it!”

  “Invite it, actually, but yes,” Austerley corrected.

  “So, either it needs to be stopped or it needs putting away. Whatever it is. Do you know what it is, Austerley?” Kirkgordon was rapidly regretting taking on his charge.

  “No.” Austerley shook his head slowly. “But if Zahn’s music is involved then it’s Elder. It’s like before… Sorry.” The two misfits stared at each other, caught up in the common bond of the damned.

  “Gentlemen, it seems pertinent that you get to Russia and that you are the first to this threshold,” Farthington ordered. “It seems that you do indeed have work to do.”

  In-Flight Entertainment

  The business jet was an extremely plush affair. Kirkgordon had never been in a Gulfstream V and at first he enjoyed the lavishness of the interior cabin. The arrival of a rather good-looking stewardess further enhanced his mood, although he did notice she had a discreetly holstered weapon. He thought using firearms on aircraft was rather risky and, given Austerley’s earlier outburst, a degree of surprise that Farthington would allow such armament crept in. The matter played on his mind until he fully perceived the shape of the weapon and recognized it as a dart gun. The gamekeepers were watching the rhino.

  Austerley was enjoying some rather fine wine. Kirkgordon didn’t take in the vintage or vineyard it came from but then he wasn’t actually listening to Austerley. He would nod his head occasionally but his mind was preoccupied. Two days ago he had been approached by one of Farthington’s men in his quiet local.

  He should have realized. The money was too good; the risk had to be high. But what really vexed him was the driving force behind his taking on this venture, a journey that was bound to take him back to that maddening fool who had gotten them into such a foul scrape underneath that accursed graveyard. Deep down he felt pity for Austerley. Something made him sympathetic to that blasted man. The things they had seen had bonded them together for better or, as it seemed now, for worse.

  Farthington was quite engaged by Austerley. They talked deeply of wines and culture, about Russia and its current battles and problems. But what most fascinated Farthington were Austerley’s days as a professor at Miskatonic University in Arkham. Strictly speaking, he had been Professor of Tribal History and Cuisine, but this was just a front. Austerley had been at the forefront of research into the Eldars. A walking encyclopedia of all things hidden in the deep, sent from outer space’s blackest regions, or, indeed, scattered throughout our known world. It was rumoured that Austerley had obtained a personal copy of the dreaded Necronomicon, and when questioned by Farthington he did not seek to deny this truth.

  The conversation continued gently enough until the mention of one name brought a slumbering Kirkgordon to life.

  “Did you say Carter? Don’t you even mention that name! You know where that took us last time.” Kirkgordon pointed an accusing finger at Austerley. Sweat was beginning to break out on his head.

  “You mean Randolph Carter?” quizzed Farthington.

  “Randolph bloody mad mannish freak Carter! Yes, Farthington, that damned lunatic,” said Kirkgordon.

  “Oh, he was no lunatic…” Austerley interjected, only to have Kirkgordon round on him again.

  “He jumped into clocks. Talked to cats. And went looking for the darkest presence ever known. He was one hundred percent lunatic. Top commander in the la-la-la crowd! What’s worse is that we have his chief of staff sitting opposite us now. His problem is your problem. Is it dark? Yes. Is there something malevolent in the darkness? Yes. Can it drive us mad? Yes. To a point worse than death? Yes. Can we stop it? No. Oh, what the hell, let’s take a good look anyway! Bloody lunatics.”

  Austerley went quiet and his face dropped down into his chest. Whenever he looked up, Kirkgordon’s eyes enforced the silence. Farthington, not wanting an incident at forty thousand feet, stared out of the window at the white cloud landscape below and the piercing sun on the port side. Five minutes passed without a word. Then Austerley felt brave enough to venture an excuse.

  “The copy of the runes was six thousand years old. It had crumbled to pieces. It was perfectly understandable that the computer’s reassembling software misaligned one of the runes. It was a freakish anomaly. Just one of those little upsets that every explorer experiences.”

  Kirkgordon stood to speak but no words came out. He stared at Austerley as if trying to detect the joke but none was forthcoming. Austerley was completely genuine in his belief that what had happened in that grave was just an unfortunate mishap.

  “Just to clarify,” Kirkgordon said, in a unwavering but extremely quiet voice which seemed intended to let the dead lie, “having the flesh ripped off my back by things I cannot even begin to describe, feeling my very core being sucked out of me, having Warren’s long-dead yet fresh corpse slammed in my face, seeing the wildest and vilest sights, which still come to me every night in my ’mares, losing my family, losing the woman who stood by me when I went through the normal hells of this world, the woman who struggled to find my soul after that darkest day and who, when she did, recoiled from the horror that dwelt within me, nine months of isolation in that monastery finding what good remained in this world, this… this!… was a little upset? Dammit, Austerley, they ought to put you down for your own good.”

  Austerley coughed quietly.

  “Churchy… thank you for getting me out.” With that, Austerley turned his own head to the window and the view outside. Kirkgordon stared at the chastised “lunatic” before him and fought to suppress the pity he felt for this troubled man.

  “You’re welcome, Indy,” he murmured under his breath.

  The rest of the flight consisted of a silence born from th
e hollow left by Austerley’s apology. Kirkgordon tried to get some sleep but he felt the sharp talons again on his back. In his dreams he saw a large winged creature, as black as his mood had been in the monastery. It would fade in and out of clarity but he could always sense the immenseness of the creature. Next, his mind would be violated by Warren’s half-digested face slamming into him. It had only just been recognizable from the black and white photograph of Warren at Miskatonic University. They had warned him but he hadn’t listened. No one would touch Austerley or even contemplate his work. But the money had been good for babysitting this eccentric yet daft professor. Kirkgordon’s lack of understanding of the Eldars had lured him into a false sense of security about the professor.

  Then it all drifted away into a spinning green cauldron, which unwound to reveal a picture of tropical warmth. A woman was holding a lizard. She was smiling, half at the creature and half at him, her new-found love. Part of him roared with hunger for the beauty before him. Her long, dark hair curving onto her shapely torso, hips he remembered holding in the throes of passion. He dreamt that he was holding her tight, tasting her neck, the saltiness of her sweat like honey in his mouth. Body reacting to and encouraging body, souls touching on that most ethereal of plains. And then it swooped! She was carried away by the winged creature, hanging from its talons like a redundant corpse. He fired at it, blasting until it was out of sight. All the time he heard Austerley screaming at the guns.

  “Twenty minutes to landing. Get yourself together, old bean.” Farthington smiled at the wakening Kirkgordon. “You’re back on babysitting duty.”

  Kirkgordon yawned and stretched and looked at the greyish cloud outside the window. He should have been going through the plans for Russia. How would they remain incognito? How would they track down this lead? Would they intercept, or just stake out the individual to see what he wanted? Would this mysterious threshold place be on time? But all he could see was a mother, a lover and, above all, the other half of his soul.

  Exit Stage Right

  Farthington had a plan. It seemed like a complete over-elaboration to Kirkgordon but Austerley was extremely excited by the prospect of so many black limousines arriving at the aircraft. Five in total would be arriving together and then driven off in various different directions to confuse “our Russian friends”. It wasn’t often that Austerley got to ride in such a palatial car and he was itching to go. Wrapped in a large winter parka, thick grey trousers and large black boots, Austerley was the closest in appearance to a typical Russian. Kirkgordon preferred to wear his trekking jacket with numerous tight tops underneath, but at least his black track bottoms and baseball boots gave him the look of an average Joe. Farthington remained in his crisp suit with white shirt and tie, over which was a large grey coat and an umbrella and bowler hat that completed the “civil service abroad” look.

  “Trust no one,” Farthington whispered to Kirkgordon on exiting the aircraft, handing him an automatic as they headed for the vehicles.

  “I don’t!” Kirkgordon retorted, promptly handing the weapon back. He never liked the idea of being armed unnecessarily. There was Austerley to think about. He’d start singing loony tunes if he caught a glimpse of the weapon. Also, the Federal Security Bureau were bound to be on their tail, otherwise, why bother with the limousines? Experience had taught Kirkgordon that it was often better to blend in than to stand out, better to talk your way out than to come out fighting.

  Austerley clambered into the middle of the back seat of the limo. Spreading out his limbs and his girth, he was in a good mood. At last some adventure was coming his way and he could start re-investigating the Eldars. Better than that, this Farthington guy seemed to want to bankroll it all. Funny how life worked out. Still, it was good to have Kirkgordon about. He knew how to handle himself and, what with early indications of Zahn, there was likely to be some action. As his thoughts turned to finding the seeker of Zahn’s music, Austerley was rudely pushed to the far edge of the seat by Kirkgordon. Farthington occupied the seat facing them and shortly afterwards the limo pulled away.

  “Where to?” Farthington inquired. “I refrained from asking until now so that none of the other drivers would know.” Although Farthington had been staring directly at Austerley, it was Kirkgordon who replied.

  “Downtown. Central shopping area.”

  “Did our expert tell you this?” Farthington looked at Austerley before flicking his head in the direction of Kirkgordon. Austerley had a quizzical look on his face, but it lightened at Kirkgordon’s reply.

  “Just need a few things. Better to be prepared.”

  “We have an ample arsenal at your disposal if required.”

  “I specialize. So, much appreciated, but I prefer my own gear, if you don’t mind,” smiled the former bodyguard. “Once I get sorted then we can follow some of Austerley’s ideas for tailing this fellow. Happy, old bean?”

  “Absolutely, old chap, but do not be tardy, we have a lot of work to do.” Farthington missed Austerley’s momentary look of panic on hearing that he supposedly had “ideas”.

  Austerley stared out of the window at the passing buildings and minutiae of everyday life. Bus stops, cars, new apartments, closed factories, older women carrying groceries. Everything had a grimness to its face. He knew the looks in the eyes of the people, the dashed hopes in their souls. It was a pervasive feeling despite the major changes in recent decades. He felt it too. Some people took hope from the small things of life continuing, from friends and family climbing the ladders. Too many years studying the Eldars had blunted this defence for him. Now he was as forlorn as these citizens. He wallowed in the pitiful scene outside. A final few calm moments before the flood.

  The door opening was a surprise, as the car was still travelling. It was slowing down, approaching some traffic lights, but still moving all the same and so the shock was palatable. Austerley had no time to react as he felt his collar pulled and he was half carried, half thrown from the car and smartly hauled down a nearby side street. Looking down he saw Kirkgordon’s boots. Bugger! This meant trouble.

  Farthington’s shout of “Stop!” could be heard behind them but Kirkgordon continued with the extraction and increased his pace. In a half-crouched form, legs stumbling, being pulled as he was, Austerley didn’t get any opportunity to raise his head. Instead, he saw pavements and road surfaces pass by. There were open doors and kitchen floors. Shouts went up, from residents he supposed, and the clatter of items falling from tables was heard in their wake. At first, he could hear Farthington’s shouts. Then the voices became Russian, with cries of “down here” and “cut them off over there”.

  Austerley was out of breath and feeling physically sick but his guide was relentless. Gradually, he realized that the hue and cry was dissipating and Kirkgordon was slowing. Then came the darkness and the slamming of a metal door behind them. Nausea overcame Austerley and he threw up on the floor. He started to cough but felt a hand clasp his mouth with a quiet but sharp “shush”.

  Time spent in the dark is often hard to quantify but Austerley reckoned a good ten minutes passed before the hand released his mouth. Outside he had heard the world continue in its quiet way, a distinct jackhammer punctuating the relatively calm back street his hidey-hole was in. Once, a couple of girls giggled their way past, and he also heard a man with a gruff voice shout into a mobile phone insisting he was not “bloody well late”. Austerley’s command of Russian was good and he recognized the local accent of all these voices. Racing through his head were random ideas of why Kirkgordon might have taken such evasive action. Nothing untoward had happened. Clearly, Farthington had been shocked at the developments. Eventually the silence had lasted long enough for Austerley to venture a question.

  “Wh…” He was cut off immediately by the hand going over his mouth again.

  “Indy,” Kirkgordon whispered, in a calm but clearly bothered tone as if in a state of alert, “did you tell Farthington anything about your history here in Russia? Does he kno
w where you might be going?”

  The hand didn’t remove itself from his mouth so Austerley just shook his head gently. He felt Kirkgordon’s breath on his neck, controlled but deep. Although the outside ambience was all that could be heard, the internal whirring of Kirkgordon’s mind was all too evident.

  Suddenly there was a slight click and the door of the hidey-hole was prised open slightly. A torch shone into the darkness but Austerley realized there were some boxes between himself and the new arrivals. The hand on his mouth had gone but he had heard no movement from Kirkgordon. Shining over his head was the light from the torch, onto what he realized was the back wall of a metal container. An authoritative Russian voice ordered the two British runaways to come out. Austerley swallowed hard. He knew the long history of Russia’s secret police and he had no desire to see if it was still as effective. Despite flicking here and there across the back wall, it was clear that the circle of light from the torch was growing steadily. Quiet but deliberate footsteps confirmed Austerley’s suspicions of the ever-increasing proximity of the owner of the voice.

  “Ah, Mr Austerley, if you would be so kind as to step out from…” Thud!

  Austerley gingerly stood up and peered over the boxes to see a prone man wearing a grey bomber jacket and black trousers with black boots. Then his eyes were drawn to the figure at the door beckoning him forward.

  “Indy, move!” came the hushed but imperative call.

  In his haste, Austerley’s footsteps rang out inside the container. An exasperated “Flaming nora” introduced another neck grab and frogmarch. Thankfully, five minutes later Kirkgordon concluded their escape and hastened them both into a shambolic roadside café.

  “Get the coffees, then come over and sit down. I’ll explain what’s going on,” Kirkgordon whispered. Austerley waited in the small queue before ordering. He had to adjust his accent once he had heard the lady behind the serving counter speak. They were not as far downtown as he had thought. Still, a coffee was welcome, if only to wash the sick taste out of his mouth.