STORIES

Goran Skrobonja

RUBBER SOUL
Translated by the author
Edited by Brian North Lee

Copyright © 1992 by G.Skrobonja

[1] [2] [3]

'In the beginning there wasn’t a Word.’

The toothless old man in a dirty overcoat of the indeterminable colour grinned at me from the murky shadow of the Liverpool waterfront; just a moment or two before this unusual statement, he had counted the bundle of pounds I gave him and hid it magically somewhere inside his pockets.

‘In the beginning there was a Song. And the lads knew it.’

Cold English rain was falling down with renewed gusto, making me shiver. I was thinking about the old man; in ‘65 he might have been thirty or something. Today, fifty years later, he looked like an ancient ritual gravestone from some excavation site in the Middle East. He had the archaic Liverpool accent, but I was able to understand every word. Thanks to “the lads” who had made Liverpool famous.

The lads, of course, were The Beatles.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘is there some place near, where we can talk without having this drizzle down our necks?’

‘There’s a pub around here,’ the old man said and winked.

‘Great fish ‘n’ chips. Okay by you?’

‘Whatever,’ I muttered, ‘just as long as it’s dry.’

He led me through dark and slippery passages between stacked overseas freight containers. I followed him, suspicious, exposed and helpless in this strange environment. I was trying to hold my fear in check. I had to have this conversation.

The old man led me to the fence of the free-trade zone, grinned again in the weak light of the lamp, and crouched. ‘This way,’ he said and slipped to the other side through the invisible opening in the wire. I followed him with a sigh, expecting any moment now the blinding searchlight and threatening shouts of the port guards. Nothing happened; it only rained harder than ever.

The old man was standing a few steps from me, gesturing impatiently. I hurried to him and he led me on, between the parked lorries.

‘Why are we going this way?’ I gasped.

‘It’s bloody faster, that’s why,’ he replied and melted with the darkness. We soon arrived to our destination, through the alleys in which I wasn’t able to see anything at all — it was a huge parking lot for rigs and haulers. On the other side of the lot I could see the shimmering lights behind the curtain of rain.

‘There,’ the old man showed me, and ran across the lot with the amazing speed. I cursed silently and followed him. My heart was pounding in my ears. For this kind of exertions, I should have been thirty years younger — and the same number of kilos lighter. The old man opened the door of the pub with the unreadable sign above the window, and the mixed odors of tobacco, fish, sweat and alcohol struck me from inside.

My guide used his elbows to push his way through the crowd, saying hello here and there to his friends, while I was trying to keep up with him. The pub was terribly loud, and the background for all this commotion was coming from the automaton placed on the small stage, playing sleazy, empty versions of Beatles standards on the multi-sonic. On the head of the apparatus I noticed the wig and spectacles probably intended to make the automaton look like Lennon, and this travesty made me shiver again. Then I looked again after the skinny back and gray hair before me, fearing I would lose the old man in the mob of patrons. The old man suddenly stopped and I saw him shouting something in the ear of the middle-aged man with rosy cheeks. The man nodded, looked up to me over the old man’s shoulder, and turned around and led us to the other side of the bar. The loud bunch of boys kept shooting darts there. The man, supposedly the owner, pushed through them, murmuring apologies, and unlocked the sliding panel on the wall. There was a small cubicle behind, with a table for two, or three people at best. The old man and I sat ourselves down inside; the owner of the pub turned on the lamp on the wall and disappeared to return about a minute later with two pints of light beer and plates of fish, chips and mushy peas. Then he closed the sliding door and left us alone.

‘It was very hard to get to you, Mr. Peabody,’ I said, putting my hat on the only empty chair in the cubicle. It was lazily dripping water down the wooden seat and chair-legs, accumulating in a small puddle on the floor. Within this tight, closed space, the air soon became saturated with moisture evaporating from the two of us.

The old man waved his hand, dismissing my remark, took a fried fish between his thumb and forefinger, swallowed it and washed it down with some beer.

‘So, you’ve found me, haven’t you? And you’ve just told me why. I knew it had to happen, sooner or later. Tell me... your accent? You’re from abroad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where from?’

‘It’s not important,’ I snapped. After the nocturnal chase under the onslaught of the whipping rain, the smell of fried fish was irresistible, and I joined the old man. Surprisingly, the beer was cold. It felt good.

‘Tell me, Mr. Peabody,’ I said, ‘why was this song never recorded? Why did they retain the album title — Rubber Soul — but they never put the song with the same title on tape, or cut it on vinyl?’

‘Oh, but they did. It had been recorded. The Song, with the capital S — if you know what I mean. The song "Rubber Soul" was recorded in September ‘65, in the EMI Parlophone studio. But all takes were destroyed the following weekend, including the demo tape recorded by John on his home four-channel tape recorder. Nobody was able to explain that.’

‘Why didn’t they record it again?’

Peabody looked up and grinned, showing me the mouthful of peas. ‘Because suddenly no one was able to remember it. Not even John, who’s made the music, not even Paul, who’s helped him up with harmonies and the final version of the words, not even George Martin, who’s packed it all up. Bloody hell, not even I could remember it, although I’d heard it at least fifty times on rehearsals and recording sessions — well, to tell you the truth, the Song wasn’t ever played and sung by The Beatles in one session; they recorded the parts, music and vocals apart, and George Martin only had to make the final cut by putting the two together in the studio.’

I nodded. I expected something like that. I sipped more beer and took the notebook out of the inner pocket of my coat.

‘You’re some kinda reporter, ain’t you?’ Peabody asked me, suddenly suspicious. ‘Because, if you intend to quote me, it’s no bloody deal. I don’t want to end up like poor Tom did...’

I looked up. ‘Tom? Tom Carmody?’ Tom Carmody belonged to the small team of people attending to The Beatles’ needs while they were working in the studio. Like a few others, Carmody was born in Liverpool, and he used to hang around John and Paul since the days when they were imitating the Everly Brothers as The Nurk Twins, and trying to get laid by picking their guitars and singing. The authorized biographies of the Fab Four mentioned this guy in a couple of places, mainly between shooting the motion picture and recording the album Help!, and Twickenham Studio sessions, where The Beatles made the movie and the LP called Let It Be. I didn’t know what Peabody was getting at.

‘Something’s happened to Tom Carmody?’ I asked him, and the old man turned his eyes from me. His features were pinched, as if he’d already said more than he should have.

‘C’mon, man! I’m not a reporter... and I just gave you a pile of money. What happened to Tom? By the looks of you, I’d say that you wouldn’t like much for the same to happen to you.’

Peabody looked down at his hands and shrugged.

‘Poor Tom,’ he said. ‘They found ‘im four days ago, floating in the Mersey. It took a while to identify him — his head was missing, you know. Anyway, it was all over the newspapers. Eventually, they found his head, too.’

‘Where?’

‘You know the monument on Penny Lane?’ He was talking about the monument raised as The Beatles memorial in the part of Liverpool made famous by McCartney’s song. There were bronze sculptures — Paul seated, with Hoefner violin-bass in his arms, John crouching beside him, holding his Rickenbaker guitar upright, with George and Ringo standing behind, their eyes staring forever into the mists of Liverpool. They were in leather jackets and jeans, The Beatles from the age of Star Club and their Hamburg quests. I nodded.

‘Well, they found Tom’s head under Lennon’s feet. The eyes were missing. And in the mouth...’ Peabody wiped his lips with the back of his hand, rubbed his chin covered with white bristles and swallowed. ‘In his mouth they found something... something...’

‘Something like this?’ I asked quietly and reached across the table.

For a moment, while Peabody was staring at my palm, I feared that his heart would fail him. His face suddenly grew pale like a funeral mask, and his eyes bulged in shock. He didn’t have to answer to my question; his response was quite sufficient. I closed my fingers and put the small object back in my pocket.

‘W-w-where did you find that, mister?’ he stuttered when he found his breath again.

‘It’s a long story. Too long. Here, drink some, so that we can continue. I won’t be bothering you much longer.’

His hand was shaking while he was lifting the glass up to his lips. I waited for a moment or two, allowing him to recover from the shock of recognition; then I read from my notebook:

‘“Michael Peabody, born in Liverpool — date of birth uncertain — met The Beatles while they played at the famous Cavern Club, where he was employed as a bouncer; followed them on their tours as a bodyguard and belonged to the security team during studio sessions. Lost his job with The Beatles after their Apple company in London was founded; current occupation unknown.” Is this correct?’

Peabody nodded.

‘I was able to glean that much about you. I got your telephone number from the social security.’

‘You’re not very smart to pry around like that,’ Peabody said and looked me in the eyes. ‘That bloody song never did anythin’ good for anybody, I say. If you’re not a reporter, why then-’

‘I’ve got my own reasons,’ I interrupted. ‘You say that you don’t remember that particular song. But tell me, do you think you’d be able to recognize it if you, by any chance, heard it somewhere?’

‘Christ, by all means! Among thousands! But it’s impossible, of course, I’ve already told you, all recordings were-’

I took the small chip-player out of my pocket and reached across the table to put it in his ear. He winced, as if I was holding a venomous spider in my hand. ‘Hey, what the bloody hell you think-’

‘Don’t worry. Just listen to this for ten seconds.’

He started to protest, but I turned the chip on. The effect was not unlike the one from a few minutes ago, when Peabody saw the mysterious object on the palm of my hand, but this was much more intensive. His features contorted in the ultimate horror of recognition and he pushed himself away from the table, as if he intended to press himself into the wall of the cubicle behind his back. I turned the thing off and put the small machine back in my pocket.

‘Christ,’ he was shaking his head, ‘Christ... where in heaven did you... oh, Christ!’

‘That’s it, right?’ I said. ‘The lost song of The Beatles? The song called "Rubber Soul"?’

‘Christ, yes! Now I can remember the tune, as if it was yesterday when I watched John sittin’ by the piano and playin’ it to Paul and others! But the voice... the voice isn’t John’s... It sounds alike, but it’s not John.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Mr. Peabody, just one question more and you’ll earn the hundred pounds you’ve been paid. If I’m not wrong, down there on the dock, where you insisted to meet with me, you said: “In the beginning there was a Song.” Why such a mystical statement? Because of its inexplicable disappearance?’

‘Yeah...’ Peabody said. ‘And because of what that Jeromme bloke said. Basil Jeromme.’

‘Basil Jeromme?’ I took my pen and scribbled the name under my note on Peabody. ‘What about him?’

‘He came to me a few months ago, he did, to ask me about "Rubber Soul." He was raving something about some cons... constellation, about Song of Songs, about evil spirits, how the bloody hell should I know... I told him what I could, but he wasn’t very satisfied when he left.’

‘Do you have his address?’

‘Yep.’ Peabody fumbled about his overcoat and gave me a white card. ‘This is the card he gave me. Take it. I don’t need it. Don’t need yours, either. Although you never gave it to me. Maybe you even gave me some phony name...’

‘Maybe,’ I said and took my hat. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Peabody. And thanks. You were a great help.’

‘Hey! Won’t you tell me where did you get-’

But I was already out, pushing my way through the crowd. Outside, I pushed my hat down on my forehead and turned my back to the wind-driven rain. I was lucky: soon I saw smudged yellow lights of a free hover-cab and raised my hand. Fifteen minutes later, I was in my hotel room.

I took my wet clothes off to hang them in the bathroom to dry. Then I took the card Peabody gave me and read it again. Professor Basil Jeromme, British Museum, London. There was a telephone number. Maybe that man could tell me something about the puzzling object I brought from Belgrade with me. So, it’s the tiresome railway ride to London again tomorrow... I understood the British insistence on tradition, but in some things it was, if not absurd, then at least ridiculous. Anyway, I had to wait for the telephone call first.

As if reading my mind, the phone suddenly rang, making me jump. I rushed to the nightstand and grabbed the receiver.

‘Hello?’ I said hoarsely into the microphone.

‘Hello, Goran?’ I heard from distance; it was the voice from my audio-chip, the voice so similar to Lennon’s.

‘Rastko? Tell me, is everything okay?’

‘No.’ A single, short word of negation, stabbing my stomach like an ice pick.

‘Tell me,’ I said, my eyes closed, my voice strangled. Suddenly, Peabody’s voice whispered in my mind: A head with no eyes... and in the mouth something... something...

‘They’re gone. Sandra and Manya both. The college authorities are not able to explain that. They were here, in Oxford, until this very morning, and their attendance to classes was duly registered.’

‘In which hotel are you staying?’ I asked. The voice belonged to someone else.

‘Randolph.’

‘Okay, I’m packing and leaving right away. Wait for me there.’

Professor Jeromme will have to wait. Rastko’s daughter and mine have just disappeared.

The morning came clear, with no rain. Carefully tended forests, fields and grassy hillsides were washed and very green. The clouds were dispersing and it looked as if it was going to be a clear and sunny day — quite inappropriate, compared to my state of mind.

I felt the deep fatigue from the sleepless night. I left the hotel in Liverpool at 11:00 p.m., taking the commercial hover to Manchester, where I waited for the train to London. Then, at 3:25 A.M., I left the train in Northampton, to catch the local line to Oxford. I could have chosen a somewhat more comfortable solution — a flight from Liverpool to London, then a bus from Gatwick to Oxford, but the first flight was scheduled for 9:00 next morning. That would be a seven or eight hours delay.

I didn’t have to ask the man at the reception desk for Rastko’s room number. I spotted him in the lobby, with two strangers; for a moment, it was like seeing a ghost — with his beard, round glasses and his face gaunt with worry, he looked just like John, perhaps in his ‘primal scream’ and Plastic Ono Band album period. Then Rastko raised his head, saw me at the door and waved. I rubbed my lids to banish the fog of weariness that was clouding my eyes, and approached the coffee-table littered with cups and ashtrays. All three men stood up to greet me, and Rastko said, distractedly: ‘Hello. You were quick to arrive. These gentlemen are from the police.’
‘Henry Swanwick,’ the smaller and plumper of the two introduced himself, extending his hand. ‘Chief Inspector. This is my colleague, Detective Simon Graham.’

I shook their hands and murmured my name.

‘Please,’ I said when we all set down again, ‘tell me about the details.’

‘I have arrived at St. Hilda’s yesterday afternoon, around four,’ Rastko began; he said that in English, because of the policemen. ‘You know that we’ve spoken to the girls the night before, when we’ve arrived in England, and made the arrangement for me to go and pick them up, while you finish your task in Liverpool.’

The automatic waiter came and gathered the dishes and emptied the ashtrays, so I grabbed a chance to order some espresso. The weariness was squeezing my forehead like a metal ring.

‘Nobody came to open their doors, nor answered my calls from inside when I climbed to their bedrooms. I searched for them some time in the other rooms, and then I looked for the professor in charge. I became worried, because we had agreed upon the exact time of my arrival. The professor in charge wasn’t able to locate them, so she called the Principal, who was kind enough to break her afternoon rest and come to the college. The computer listing showed that they’d attended the classes regularly, that they’d spent their free hours in the coffee-shop and on the tennis court, and then — somewhere between two and three p.m. — they dropped out of sight.’

‘After consulting with the college Principal, Mrs. Lewelynn-Smith, your friend here called the police,’ Graham said; he was a skinny, red-haired middle-aged gentleman, who was constantly playing with the book of matches during Rastko’s speech. His voice was deep and pleasant. ‘Of course, immediately upon the arrival of the officers, the girls’ rooms were unlocked with spare card-keys, and investigated. The Chief Inspector and myself, we’ve arrived a bit later and took statements of all people who were in position to notice anything.’

‘But nothing,’ Swanwick added, ‘seems to give us a clue to surmise what had really happened. It’s possible — I repeat, possible, in spite of the strict scheduling of the students’ working classes and their free time — that your daughter, and the daughter of Mr. Ciric, have left the college grounds of their free will... to drive up to the countryside, say, or go to the pictures...’

‘Between two and three p.m.?’ I asked.

‘...But of course, that couldn’t explain the fact that they haven’t returned to Oxford yet,’ Swanwick went on as if he did not notice my interruption. ‘The other possibility is that the girls were forced to leave the premises of the college against their will — that they were abducted — as Mr. Ciric constantly claims, but it’s absolutely impossible — if not in theory, then in reality — that no material clues are left behind, or that nobody sees anything. That’s why we hope that in the end we’ll find out they’ve gone out to have some fun, and that they’ll be very surprised at all the fuss and all the worry. It happened before, you know.’

‘Slim chances for that,’ Rastko shook his head. ‘Knowing Manya, Alexandra too, I am certain that they’d never have done anything similar, especially since we’d already arranged our meeting for the fixed time.’

‘Do you have any enemies?’ Swanwick asked suddenly.

Rastko and I exchanged glances; the reason for this question was obvious. If we are talking about the abduction here, there must be a reason strong enough for such an action.

I was thinking about this for a few moments, then finally sighed and nodded.

The Chief Inspector smiled.

‘Let’s hear it, then, gentlemen. Which enemy of yours could be able at all to arrange the abduction of your daughters?’

We exchanged glances again, and Rastko said, quite openly: ‘We don’t have a clue.’

We had to start at the very beginning — more than twenty years ago. Rastko allowed me to tell the tale, and interrupted a few times only to add some explanation or detail, while the two policemen were listening quietly and typing from time to time something in the miniature data processor.

So, sometime in the spring of 1993, Rastko and I met quite accidentally (or so it seemed that way then, but now, after more than two decades, and in the light of recent events, it does not look that accidental anymore). We have traveled to Greece together, to some kind of a fair — Rastko did the design for the whole exhibition of the organizing company, while I was representing the firm in which I was employed then, invited by Rastko’s employers. Anyway, since we spent a few days in the same hotel room, we were forced to get to know each other better — which was a pleasant surprise for the both of us. One of many things in which we had shared our interest was The Beatles. We had both played almost all of their songs in schools, at outings and parties; we had both known almost everything there was to know about their career together and their separate careers after the split-up. And then, Rastko managed to surprise me with one fact that was unknown to me.

‘Did you know,’ he told me one day, while we were strolling the streets of Thessaloniki, ‘that there was a song called "Rubber Soul?"’

‘No,’ I said, mystified.

‘Yeah, it was supposed to be the title song for the Rubber Soul LP, and then, they excluded it from the completed material.’

I was totally perplexed by this fact. ‘Why would The Beatles do such a thing?’

‘Nobody knows,’ he said, ‘but it’s quite possible that the song had something to do with religion — less than one year after the album had been issued, Lennon said that ‘The Beatles were more popular than Christ,’ thus provoking the worldwide burning of their records, especially in America.’

I had duly noted the fact of the unknown song as another Beatles curiosity, and just before I was ready to stop thinking about it, Rastko said: ‘You see, I intend to make a media project involving this song.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, since neither the sheet music nor the text is available anywhere, I thought it would be good to compose and record the song with the title “Rubber Soul”. Have you ever read the story “Pierre Menard, the Writer of Quixote”, by Borges?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, you see, this guy had Menard allegedly decided to write again Don Quixote by Cervantes, in the twentieth century, and the final result was that his text and the one by Cervantes were exactly the same, only their meaning wasn’t, due to the different ages of their origin. This inspired me to think of such a thing. What do you think, eh? The Beatles song, which is not the Beatles song, but nobody is able to say that it couldn’t be a Beatles song.’

Something in it rang a bell in my head. I listened to Rastko’s further exalted explanations of the way he succeeded to find some famous people from the music scene in Belgrade interested in such a project; he said that getting this project off the ground would be a piece of cake if only that song — or the whole album with a dozen songs titled “Rubber Soul” in all possible variations — was made. He managed to make me think of the way this song could have really sounded — was it really some naughty anti-religious comment (implied by the word “Soul” from the title), or was it only a ‘soul music’ song (which wasn’t a very tempting idea, but having in mind that on their next album, Revolver, The Beatles had the song called “Got to Get You Into My Life”, recorded exactly as a ‘soul’ number, it was also possible) — or maybe we were talking about some classic Beatles’ rock ’n’ roll (also rhyming with ‘soul’)... as the time went by, I became more and more obsessed with this. Finally, that same evening, I wrote the words for the song that was supposed to be the foundation of Rastko’s project.

As it usually happens with good ideas, the first lines began to tumble in my head while I was in the bathroom. Under the hot shower, I was sorting out all English words I knew rhyming with ‘soul.’ Then, just before bedtime, I took a pencil and some paper, and started writing. I think that once, in his letter to Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard wrote that, while writing his stories of Conan the Barbarian, he felt the presence of some invisible entity standing above his head, dictating the sentences right into his pen. After the very first line of the song — Remember the times when you were so small — I had the very same feeling, and I do not think that it took more than ten minutes before the words were complete. Rastko was very glad that his idea came a step closer to realization, and he spent several weeks composing; finally, when I managed to find some spare time and drop by to his place, he played “Rubber Soul” on piano, and left me mesmerized and unbelieving with that demonstration. The song sounded as if Lennon himself had put it together and — with McCartney’s help — composed a melodic, provocative and philosophical observation that easily found its way to one’s ear and remained in the listener’s mind long after being played. Encouraged by this, we composed thirteen other songs, all bearing the titles that were officially mentioned in various books about the Fab Four, as recorded, but never published. Rastko’s original and attractive project was ready to be presented to media — and then, thanks to fierce political tremors, war and the most elementary existential problems, we were forced to forget about “Rubber Soul” completely... only to remember it more than two decades later.

Recently, while rummaging through the boxes with old books and materials, Rastko came upon the sheet music prepared and printed a long time ago — they even had the caption “Words and Music by Lennon & McCartney” and “Copyright Ó1965 by Northern Songs Ltd.” — and called, suggesting the renewal of the whole thing. ‘It would be good to mark the half century after the first appearance of the Rubber Soul album,’ he told me. I admit that, at first, I had some trouble remembering what he was talking about, but after he had reminded me, it did not take long for me to get all warmed up for the project’s revival. It was all much easier now, since we had both had better contacts in media and among trend-makers than two decades earlier, and the recording of the chip-single with the mysterious Beatles song hit the news.

Then — only four days ago — something happened. Something that had made us travel urgently to England.

‘And what exactly might that be?’ Swanwick asked, with professionally neutral face.

‘I was attacked in my own flat,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ Rastko said calmly, and adjusted his glasses.

The house was empty without my wife and kids. Even Sandra’s absence during the past seven months was felt as a painful emptiness, something we were not able quite to adjust to. Although Sandra’s been calling us regularly, that emptiness was like a physical hole between us. And now, since Dragana and Theodora, our younger daughter, had traveled to Negotin — my wife’s family has some very good vineyards there — to the traditional grape festival, I felt like the last pea in the can, rattling mindlessly between the walls. Still, I had to stay. I was completing my new book, and I also had a lot of responsibilities because of the promotion of the song and Rubber Soul chip.

That night, I awoke suddenly in the dark, feeling totally disorientated. Reflexively, I groped beside me, but the other side of the bed was empty and cold. I lifted my head and looked around the darkness of the bedroom. Faint moonlight was coming through the windows, and I could not see anything unusual in the dark silhouettes and shadows of the room. Still, I was very anxious, with no visible reason. I reached for the switch of the nightstand lamp, and paused in the middle of the movement.

The smell. I suddenly realized that my sleep was disturbed by the smell that my slowed, waking mind finally managed to register — the smell weird, ancient and utterly out of place here, and now. The smell of the forest.

Amazed and completely conscious, glancing again uneasily into the gloom, I completed my movement and pressed the switch. The light flashed... and immediately disappeared, as if shrouded by black, impenetrable mass of darkness. I sat up.

The rays of moonlight falling steeply into the room now shone upon the strange turbulence in the air. I thought I saw particles of dust coming together, gaining thickness and becoming a kind of a mist. The smell of the forest was stronger than before.

The wind gusted over me, and it was ancient and awesome. Stifling the scream in my throat, staring into the dark turmoil, I scrambled back until my shoulder-blades touched the headboard.

Then I heard the sound: a tiny hum at first, caressing my eardrums, then gradually stronger, more palpable, in dramatic intervals of the oncoming horror. I heard strides, although my frozen mind was not able to come up in those frantic moments with an image of a creature big enough to make such tremendous strides. With each stride, coming closer and closer, I felt stronger and stronger vibrations in the floor, now magically terminated five feet from the footboard of my bed, where I could see the edge of the dark, lush grass; vibrations found their way over the bed to my teeth which were already chattering. Coming with all this, the deep forest coldness, heavy freshness of the habitat where sunshine was banished forever by the gargantuan, entangled and impenetrable ancient tree-tops, froze my bones and my thoughts, making me shiver helplessly. Soon the noise became a deafening rumble from the bowels of the earth, followed by crashing, tearing and ripping of the trunks that stood in the way of the oncoming thing. Then I saw the first glow of light, rapidly gaining the intensity, but something in its quality made me wish that the forest had remained in darkness. It was an unearthly, murky red light, nuance of red with no place in the specter, which did not belong to this atmosphere, under this sun. Now I was able to see the dark silhouettes of the trees directly in front of me, against the shifting red glow: it resembled some phantasmagoric dream of hell. I grasped all of that, horrified and unable to move, trying to grab the helpful notion that I was really still asleep, knowing at the same time that it was not true. Then I finally saw my late visitor.

Or rather, I saw his advance guards. The swirling mist was rolling my way and spreading among ancient trees, lit up from inside; its tentacles crossed the clear line between the rug in my bedroom and the grass of this impossible forest, only to uncurl around the base of the bed and rushed up with speed too high for any natural phenomenon, transforming into a spinning wheel of shapes that were there one moment, to be gone the very next — frozen and horrified, I was staring into the impish play of faces and grimaces, now blissful and beautiful, only a moment later demonic, furious and repulsive. Above the rumbling doom approaching, I found myself picking up another sound: the long scream rising up, through the empty space where only minutes ago stood the ceiling of my bedroom, towards silent, black, threatening tops of the titanic trees. Then I realized that this scream belonged to me.

It seemed that the mist-creatures had had enough of this show for the audience of one, however attentive he may be, and turbulent patches and tentacles suddenly melted into a boiling sphere which burst, dissolving in the dark, leaving me with a sticky rivulet of spit running down my chin, with a trembling jaw and wide eyes standing out of my head towards the thing that was slowly showing itself.

It was a huge black skull with the snout of a bull and formidable curved horns at least six feet long; the glowing red embers of its eyes were buried deep under the wide brow, while its wet pits of nostrils were widening above the predatory grin of the jaws filled with ivory teeth. In that frozen instant I was grasping all horrible details of that gigantic head: ancient, lined face covered with dead skin and clusters of small insects, parasites; thick, obscenely playful tongue licking the loose black lips, sending sprays of thick mucus to the left and to the right; deep, nauseous stench coming from its mouth, stench of carcasses and clotted blood; pieces of the chewed meat and old gore between the teeth that looked as if they were able to crush stones. For a moment, it seemed to me that this head floated in the air so close that I could see the spiral lines of its horns, ending in piercing, needle-thin spikes. Then my stunned mind grasped the rest of the creature.

The body — if that dark mountain of muscles moving lithe and horribly articulated, could be called a body — did not resemble a bull. It was humanoid. On its shoulders that were scattering the ancient patriarchs among the pines of the world, there were smaller... lower... creatures with reptilian heads. They danced in excitement, twisting their long scaly necks and hissing in travesty of cheering and encouraging. Although the limbs of the giant creature were shaped like human arms and legs, it came from the forest like a panther, or some other predatory cat; for one long moment I forgot that I was supposed to continue screaming, and I looked in fascination into those burning eyes and paws... claws... hands grimed with dirt, clumps and torn bits and pieces of small forest animals unlucky enough to be in its way. Then the creature stood up sending the tremor through the forest floor. A rain of cones and dead branches fell on its head, and it roared in triumph, swinging its huge arm to crush me like a fly.

I think that I was still more than certain I was dreaming all this, that this was just a colourful holo-nightmare, with sound-effects and full simulation and senses stimulants, but the wind raised by that huge movement froze the blood in my veins and sent a short and vital burst of information to my brain: this was really happening. And then, right on the very border between the rest of my normal world and this insanity surrounding me, the movement of the beast stopped in the air with the same suddenness as it began. It seemed that the strike intended for me collided with some invisible obstacle that fully absorbed its kinetics. Where those two forces — the visible and the invisible one — met, a bright golden light flashed and the whole space around me seemed to ripple. The beast was standing there confounded, tilting its head, staring at me with those hellish eyes, while its right limb was engulfed in golden fire that sped towards its shoulder. I gasped, my eyes fixed to the flame which devoured in mere seconds the reptilian abominations shrieking in fear and pain; they simmered and disappeared in the golden fire or crawled in panic away from it, writhing and tumbling over the creature’s vast head and its bloated neck big enough to house a skyscraper.

The beast raised its ‘arm’ and looked at it, unbelieving, and roared with fury and pain. Losing contact with the border between here and there, it buried the burning limb in the ground covered with bushes and deep carpet of dead leaves. The earthquake vibrations caused by that gesture lifted my bed and I barely managed to hold on to it. I was now able to see that border, because of the way it was breaking the meagre light; there was a vortex of pine needles, splinters and rich, brown clumps of soil, and the very air glimmered following the surface of the invisible sphere. I realized that I was inside some strange, protective blob.

The monster turned around and tried again, with the same result. I was trembling, pressing myself against the headboard, aware of the fact that I was supposed to feel some kind of exaltation because I turned out to be untouchable for this nightmare, but I was still utterly terrified, reduced to a hare crouching in the middle of the road, transfixed by the lights of the oncoming car. Warm and unpleasant moistness between my legs was telling me that my bladder had joined my other body parts in the total system shutdown.

Then the beast stood up in its full horrible glory, roared high above me piercing me with his ember-eyes like the lowest worm in the universe, turned back — and disappeared.

It was in a split second, and if I had blinked, I would have probably missed it, but suddenly everything vanished — the forest, the mist, the hideous beast; the only living thing left in this room was the quivering fifty-year old man, turned into Jell-O with terror, bathed in calm, silvery moonlight.

‘Aaah...aaah...aaah.’ That was my voice, or rather what was left of it after minutes and minutes of incessant screaming, trying to break the sudden silence, louder and more painful than anything I had heard just a few moments earlier.

It was only a dream after all, I thought with enormous relief when my heart had calmed down and when it seemed no more that my heart would jump out of my mouth. With awkward, stiff motions, I stepped down from the bed and approached the window. There were no cops outside, no firemen or angry neighbors. The night was peaceful and quiet, which backed my opinion on having a dreadful nightmare and nothing else.

But, what about the wet stain on my pyjamas?

There was a reasonable explanation for that, too. My age. When was the last time I went to my doctor to check my bladder or kidneys? I did not know for sure, but it was surely the time to get it done.

I sighed, ran my hand through my thin hair distractedly, and went to the bathroom. Then I stopped. I was barefoot, and I have just stepped into something cold and greasy. Feeling dark suspicion, I sat on the bed again and grabbed the lamp switch. After some nervous pressing, the familiar yellow light spilled through the room and I raised my foot to see what I had stepped in.

Soil.

Soil and grass.

Stifling the urge to scream again, I went to the master switch on the wall and turned all the lights on.

Around my bed, the rug was torn and stained with dark green forest grass squashed by giant paws. The line marked with soil and grass was making a perfect arc around the footboard, and a few feet from that spot, in the middle of a large clump, something small and round glimmered. I went there, ducked down and picked up the object, to look at it closely in the light. It resembled a ring, although I was not able to imagine what kind of hand it would fit. It was made of something that was not exactly stone or metal, but some mixture of both. The rough circle of the ring was inscribed with meaningless signs and patterns. After I had spent several minutes peering into it, in futile attempts to recognize its origin or purpose, I left the object on the nightstand. Then my eyes fell upon the advertising portfolio for the Rubber Soul campaign that I had wanted to study closely in the morning, and I felt something like an energy shock in my veins.

I grabbed the phone. Suddenly, it was very important for me to talk to Rastko. I dialed his number and waited for the phone to ring; I felt beads of cold sweat on my brow. It was ringing endlessly, until finally someone picked the phone up on the other side of the line.

‘Huh-Hello?’ Rastko’s voice said from the receiver. I sighed with relief.

‘Rastko?’ My voice was a hoarse croak, almost indistinct.

‘Goran... it’s you?’ His voice was shaken, distracted.

‘Yeah... Listen! Something’s just happened here...’

‘Yes! To me, too!’

‘A forest? Freakish creatures? Some monster that resembles Minotaur?’

‘Yes!’

I closed my eyes and licked my dry lips.

‘Have you... have you been hurt?’

‘No,’ came the answer from the receiver, ‘at least I think not.’

‘What about Vesna?’

‘She’s not here. Lucky me. She went to help Iva with the baby.’ Rastko’s older daughter was living in Italy with her husband, and recently she gave birth to a baby boy. I was silent for a moment, thinking of what would have happened if my wife and my younger daughter were here, with me. My flesh broke into goose-pimples.

‘How is this possible?’ Rastko asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘I only know that we have to do something.’

‘When can we meet?’

‘How about... fifteen minutes from now?’

‘Sure. I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after this anyway.’

I looked up from the espresso that I have not tasted at all; I supposed the coffee was completely cold by now. The New Scotland Yard Inspector and his colleague were looking from Rastko to me and back. They had impressions of the people who have just realized they were conversing with raving and potentially dangerous lunatics.

Swanwick cleared his throat. ‘I do hope,’ he said after a few moments of hesitation, ‘that you don’t expect us to believe such a nonsense.’

I sighed and met Inspector’s gaze. ‘Look, Mr. Swanwick... Mr. Ciric and I have been in contact with all forms of fantasy for more than thirty years, one way or another. I suppose that we would’ve both lost our marbles that night if that was not the case. I’d like to say that I don’t believe it as well, but I simply can’t. Because it happened.’ I paused and made a nervous gesture. ‘Anyway, when we met that night and realized that the identical thing had happened to both of us, we concluded that it had to have something with the song, as well as that if such... protection... functioned for the two of us, it didn’t necessarily apply to our families. In the morning, we immediately checked out if our wives and Iva and Theodora were okay — they were. And we thought of the same thing in the same moment — we thought about the safety of our daughters here, in the College. They were alone, far from home, vulnerable. Unfortunately, their disappearance has now only confirmed our deepest fears.’

‘All right,’ the Inspector said in soft voice. ‘So... you have decided to travel to England after this... event?’

‘No,’ Rastko said. ‘We have planned our journey earlier, and this was only the reason to speed the things up.’

‘How come?’

‘We have arranged the promotion of the song with Mr. McCartney,’ I said wearily. ‘A month ago, we sent the chip with demo recording and the advertising portfolio for the animated movie about The Beatles to his office. We have received the reply very quickly — a brief one, with an invitation to visit him in his mansion in Scotland, to start working together on this project.’

‘You are talking about Sir Paul McCartney, aren’t you?’ Graham said.

‘Yes, about Sir Paul McCartney, MBE, ex-Beatle and co-author of the “Rubber Soul” song.’

‘I suppose that you... ah... still have that invitation?’ Graham said.

‘You can check it all out.’

‘The object you’ve mentioned... the one that was left behind after the departure of that... creature?’

I pulled the strange ring out of my pocket and put it on the table. I knew that Rastko got the same “souvenir” that night. And after what I have found out last night from Peabody, I wasn’t surprised at all by the way the two policemen reacted.

‘Where did you get this?’ Graham said sharply, his eyes gleaming. He was looking at the alien relic as if it was a viper ready to uncoil and spring into his face. Rastko and I exchanged glances again.

‘Do I have to start from the beginning again?’ I asked, tiredly rubbing my eyes. I was feeling the burden of weariness in my neck and shoulders after the hectic night spent traveling and dreading the moment when I would have to face the fact of our girls’ vanishing.

‘May I take a look at your passports, gentlemen?’ Swanwick said. The tone of his voice was more an order than a question. We gave him our traveling papers and he gave them back, after a short check of the Immigration stamp from Heatrow Airport.

‘If you are getting at the murder of Tom Carmody,’ I said, ‘we haven’t got anything to do with it.’ I raised my hand when Rastko looked at me, surprised. ‘We came here two days after he died.’

‘What were you doing in Liverpool?’ Swanwick asked, frowning.

‘I was meeting the man called Peabody, concerning this damned song that had brought us only trouble. You can check that out with him.’

‘Mr. Peabody’, Swanwick said coldly, ‘was found early this morning in front of the door of his apartment... inside... and under the window, in the alley dividing his building from the neighboring block. Among his remains, the exact replica of this object was found.’

I shivered from the unexpected chill. Suddenly, I felt as if I was standing in a middle of the minefield, risking the explosion with each step. The cops have obviously noticed the shock on my face, and Rastko’s expression of gaping surprise clearly showed his opinion on this new piece of information.

‘I...’ My voice was trembling. ‘I spoke with Peabody in a pub near the harbor... I don’t recall its name... and he was alive and well when I left him.’

‘We know,’ Graham said. ‘The owner of the pub had recognized Mr. Peabody and he had described a man looking just like you, having a private conversation. After you’d left, Peabody stayed in for more than three hours, filling himself with scotch. In any case, you couldn’t have committed this crime and arrived here today.’

‘When was Mr. Peabody killed?’ I asked.

‘Approximately two hours prior to your arrival.’

‘Jesus,’ I murmured and rubbed my face. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We still don’t know,’ Graham said. ‘But we are going to find out. What exactly did you talk about with the late Mr. Peabody?’

‘Oh... about the song, about the way it had been recorded, stolen, wiped clean from the tapes... about the sheet-music being destroyed... about how The Beatles themselves had forgotten the song. He seemed afraid when he had a notion that I was a reporter.’

‘Why?’

‘He said he was afraid that he’d end up just like Tom. That’s how I’d found out about Carmody’s fate. And about the fact that one of these rings... was left in his head.’

Swanwick was thinking, tapping his finger on the table.

‘Your story,’ he said finally, ‘however crazy it sounds, indicates that this... Beatles song... and the vanishing of your daughters... are closely connected to these two murders.’

‘Excuse me,’ Rastko said; he was patiently listening to our conversation and wiping his glasses, ‘would anyone be kind enough to explain me what the hell are you talking about? Murders? I don’t understand.’

Graham glanced at him with a tight smile. ‘I am sure your friend here will be able to tell you all about it.’

‘What do you intend to do about the disappearance of our daughters, Inspector?’ I asked Swanwick.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘at least not yet. If they are really abducted — and we are still not quite sure this is the case, are we — you can expect that the kidnappers are going to contact you in the immediate future about whatever they want. The fact that they haven’t been located yet — paradoxically — is very comforting. If the Ring Killer — let’s call him that — got to them, we would certainly know it already.’

I was trying at least to look calm. I had to block out any thought leading to what could have happened to Sandra and Manya in the ‘hands’ of the creature their fathers had seen that fateful night.

‘What’s your advice?’ Rastko said.

‘Wait,’ Graham said. ‘Then, if and when they do call you, let us know.’ He pushed their cards over the table. ‘In any case, we have to know about your whereabouts until this case is solved.’

‘And of course,’ Swanwick added, ‘we don’t have to stress that it would be... desirable... if you wouldn’t leave Great Britain until then.’

‘Of course,’ Rastko agreed. ‘We wouldn’t’ think of leaving without Manya and Sandra.’

Silence fell around our table. Then the Inspector cleared his throat again and said, ‘Well, I think this was enough for our first conversation.’ He stood up, and Graham followed him, like an echo. ‘Please, tell us just where you can be found in the next twenty-four hours.’

‘Since the circumstances are as they are,’ I said, ‘I think it would be best, Rastko, if you went to Scotland and see Sir Paul McCartney, like we planned in the first place. I am going to try to find the girls in one place we haven’t checked yet — with my old friend living in London. Maybe they have visited him, or called him and left some information on their whereabouts.’

‘What is the name of your friend?’ Swanwick asked.

‘Mr. Zoran Ivanovic. He is the general manager of Simpo UK Ltd., a trading company from London. If you need his home address, it’s 28B North Westchester Road.’ I knew that Zoran was at that time in Spain with his family, but I did not want the policemen to know that I knew such a fact. I had to get myself at least one more afternoon with no cops on my back. ‘Of course, you can check it out.’

‘Of course,’ Swanwick smiled dryly, while his colleague was typing the data in their small gadget. Then he nodded and turned to leave.

‘Won’t you take this as an... I don’t know, evidence?’ I said, motioning towards the ring.

Inspector shook his head. ‘For the time being, it’s quite enough to know that you are in possession of such a thing,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch, gentlemen.’

Rastko and I remained standing, staring at their backs, while they were leaving the lobby.

‘You really mean that?’ Rastko said, after a few minutes of silence. ‘That I should go to Scotland as if nothing has happened? While you are trying to pick up some non-existing trace in London?’

‘Yes,’ I said softly. ‘But I want to see their rooms first.’

Sandra’s and Manya’s rooms were in the east wing of the old college for girls, named St. Hilda’s, one of the most esteemed among thirty-odd colleges of the university town. Rooms were sparsely furnished, but their windows overlooked the old stone bridge connecting St. Hilda’s with the rest of the town, only a four or five minute bicycle ride from Jesus College, Sommerville or Hertford. The girls had decorated their rooms with ease and given them a breath of life. While standing in the doorway of Sandra’s room, I felt a short, sharp sting in my chest: I recognized the yellow raincoat casually thrown over the back of her chair, the one in which she was so proudly posing a month or two ago, when she had sent us her photo in a letter. The room was also furnished with a wide bed, desk, massive wardrobe and simple book-case. There was a nice little rug on the floor, and the side-window of the room overlooked a small yard with impeccable English grass and a brass sign on one wall, reading: QUARRELS ROOM. I recalled Sandra writing about that — about a college room reserved for discussions and arguments between the students and their tutors.

While I was entering her room, I was followed by the gaze of the tutor in charge, a middle-aged English lady with expressionless face, in a strict black and green uniform mandatory for all the staff in St. Hilda’s, including the Principal, Mrs. Levelynn-Smith, who was talking to Rastko the day before.

There was a whiff of Sandra’s favorite perfume in the room; I did not know its name, but it was something light and flowery. On her desk there were some books and writing pads, close to the keyboard and terminal of the college computer network. Among them, I could see the framed photograph taken two years ago, on summer holidays: Sandra and Teddy in front, smiling and happy, my wife and myself behind.

I left the desk as it was and went to the wardrobe. I started to rummage through her blouses, T-shirts and jeans, although I knew I would not be able to find any clue there. But I needed to smell her, to touch the things she was wearing, to sense the aura of her presence in this little room that was supposed to be her home for the next two years. At the bottom of the wardrobe I saw the edge of the old bag covered with stickers, a battered veteran from Sandra’s and Teddy’s travels, the one she wanted to take to her studies in England when she was leaving Belgrade.

I scanned the bookcase. There were some text-books, some works of fiction in English, German and French, and colourful trinkets that, I supposed, all the girls around the world found common — figurines, decorative boxes, tiny dry flower arrangements of various colours, notebooks with little golden padlocks. On the wall, near the bookcase there was a framed watercolor depicting sunny Oxford roofs; in the corner of the frame there was something white. It was an envelope, addressed in familiar handwriting. A letter from Teddy.

I put the letter back where I had found it, took another look around and went outside, to the hallway where Rastko was waiting with the woman who had unlocked Sandra’s and Manya’s room for us.

The room belonging to Rastko’s daughter was similar to Sandra’s. We came in together and looked around, uncertain, peering into things, furniture and clothing. I noticed a tennis racket and a pair of old tennis shoes, old fashioned chip-player on the desk, abstract posters on the wall and a collection of Manya’s drawings prepared for the annual Art Festival at St. Hilda’s.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Rastko said finally. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Okay,’ I sighed and turned to leave. ‘We should now-’ I stopped. Something has just caught my eye, but I needed — probably thanks to my weariness — a very long moment to register that fact.

I turned back, went to the racket and crouched.

‘What’s that?’ Rastko asked.

‘Here, take a look,’ I said and stood up with a popping sound of my tired, old bones. Between my right thumb and index finger I was holding a long blade of grass.

Rastko raised his eyebrows. ‘You think it has something to do with-?’ He stared into the blade in my hand. ‘That blade could have come from some meadow in the vicinity, if they had gone to the country, or from the tennis court.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m quite positive that you wouldn’t be able to find such a high grass anywhere near. And I’ve noticed on my way here that the university courts are hard. A part of tradition, I suppose.’

‘But,’ he said, ‘the police had searched both rooms thoroughly. They would have noticed this for sure, and made the same conclusion.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe they’d overlooked... or maybe they hadn’t been able to see it.’

We were standing for a few moments, staring with suspicion at the dark green blade rich with chlorophyll. Then Rastko took it, broke it and grounded it between his fingers. He sniffed his fingers and nodded. He gave me the blade, and I did the same. It carried the same, ancient smell of the forest, and each and every cell in my body reacted fiercely to it, urged by the racial memory.

I looked into Rastko’s eyes. I saw a reflection of my own feelings there — a mixture of knowing, horror, despair and hopelessness.

‘If nothing else,’ he said a second or two later, ‘now we know.’

I nodded. I put the broken blade of grass in my overcoat pocket and left Manya’s room. I waited for Rastko to come out after me, walking slowly like a very old man and pausing at the door to look around the whole place once again. Then our silent guide closed the door and led us outside.

We didn’t have to talk to the Principal once again, nor with other girls from the college or boys who knew our daughters. No one was able to tell us the fact we knew thanks to a single blade of grass, obviously left there on purpose, for our eyes only.

‘Listen,’ I told Rastko while we were walking down the steep street towards the Inter-City hover-bus station. ‘This way, the kidnappers have already contacted us. We shouldn’t doubt that they are tracking our moves now, and that they are going to approach us directly very soon with their request, whatever it may be. Swanwick was completely right about that. But before this happens, I’d like to find out a little more. Any little piece of information may be of crucial importance when-’ I did not finish; there was no need. ‘Anyway, I want to find the man who was talking to Peabody recently, about the song. He’s in London. And he works in the British Museum.’

Rastko scratched his head. ‘Are you sure that I should go to McCartney’s place? Don’t you think we should stick together?’

‘I have a hunch that all of this is about that damned performance that we’d arranged as a promotion, and that time is running short.’ I paused and looked at him. He smiled nervously.

‘Me too.’

‘Okay, then we got it straight,’ I said.

‘Are you sure that you can travel again?’ Rastko asked. ‘You look as if you’re barely standing.’

‘I’ll have about an hour and a half to take a nap in the hoverbus. It’ll have to do.’

‘What are we going to do about Vesna and Dragana?’ he said. ‘Are we going to call them, tell them anything?’ Our wives knew we were going on this trip to arrange the things with Paul McCartney, but they still have not heard about Manya’s and Sandra’s disappearance.

‘No. Not yet.’ My voice was soft and resigned. ‘There’s always time for that.’

Rastko nodded and we looked at each other again: two men whose best years were long gone, confused and afraid strangers in a strange land, in the midst of events they cannot control, desperate and half-crazy with worry because of the disappearance of their daughters. Suddenly, without any warning, grey and murky English sky hit us with cold drizzle, an appropriate answer to our dark foreboding. We walked on.

I had arrived to London a few minutes before Big Ben announced noon. The sky had cleared and the capital now looked clean, washed and tidy, just the way I liked it. April sun had bathed old stone facades and green parks so the whole city radiated freshness from its bustling centre. I was blinking uncertainly for a few moments at the terminal, looking at the busy traffic. Then I went to the “Imperial”. The British Museum was just a few minutes walk from the hotel. I tried to improve my looks a bit in the room: I found two bloodshot eyes in the mirror, underlined with heavy, dark bags of skin; my face was sallow and lined with ugly two-days’ stubble, with lips thin and dry, cornered by deeply carved lines. What was left of my hair was standing untidily in spikes above my wrinkled brow. I took a shower, shaved and pulled out a clean shirt from the small travel bag I carried with me. I was trying to concentrate on the mechanics of that, trying not to think, but I could not do it very well. Finally, partly resembling a decent human being again, I took the lift down to the lobby, went out to the hotel driveway and passed between the shop windows displaying electronic gadgets and toys, stepping out finally to the sunny street. I glanced at my watch. It was quarter past two, and the lunch break was over for the working people. I took a deep breath and went across, through a small park, towards the great building where I expected to find Mr. Basil Jeromme.

There were a few visitors on the wide staircase of the museum; the big parking lot lined with old iron lamps was almost empty. While I was entering the vestibule, it seemed that I was traversing from the world of light and sun to a zone of half-shadows and deep shade, dark enough to hide anything. I stood for a few moments, undecided, and I finally spotted a guard in the uniform. I asked him where I could find Professor Basil Jeromme, who worked there. The guard, a short, bald man, shrugged and sent me to the secretary of the administration. I followed his instructions and went straight ahead coming to the spot where British and medieval antiquities displays were bordering the archeological relics from the Eastern Asia. Then I turned left, surrounded by dead silence where even the settling of the dust on the deep red carpet was too loud. There was a staircase leading up to the first floor and I saw a small sign on the marble wall. To the right side of the top of the staircase, I found the administration office’s door. I knocked and entered.

‘Yes, sir?’ the girl behind the desk said, almost invisible behind the computer monitor. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Well...’ I started reluctantly. ‘I am looking for Professor Jeromme, Basil Jeromme. I have an appointment with him.’

‘Oh?’ she said suspiciously and looked at me more closely.

‘Yes,’ I continued. ‘You know, I have just arrived and it’s very important for me to see him. You see, he gave me his card the last time we’ve met... Here, see? “Professor Basil Jeromme, British Museum, London.”’ I gave her the card and she looked at it carefully. Then she looked up at me again.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘but Professor Jeromme is not here today. Can some other Museum expert for pre-Celtic civilizations help you?’

Pre-Celtic civilizations? ‘Well, no... Actually, this is a matter of personal nature. And, like I’ve already said, it’s rather urgent. Can you tell me where Professor Jeromme might be right now?’
She has probably noticed disappointed look on my face, because she smiled and typed something on the keyboard. ‘Do not worry, sir. Professor Jeromme has taken a few days off, but I suppose that you will be able to find him at his home address.’

The hidden printer hummed under the desk and the girl reached below, pulling out the sheet with printed data.

‘Here, you have his telephone number. Is it enough? It’s in the telephone book, anyway’.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much!’ I left the kind secretary and followed the same route out. Then I looked up the address in the first telephone booth and sighed with relief. The professor was living in Harley Street, not very far from there. I flagged down the first hover-cab and gave the address to the driver.

Pre-Celtic civilizations... I was trying to recall anything I had ever stumbled upon, connected to the cultures that had preceded Celtic culture in Europe, but the only things that came to my mind were druids, forest cults, Stonehenge... forest cults! Maybe there was the answer to the origin of Rastko’s and my night visitor, the creature that has obviously abducted our girls. But, what the hell did-

‘We’re here, sir,’ the driver’s voice startled me from my thoughts. The ride lasted less than three minutes. I gave the driver a banknote and left him a generous tip. I looked up at the narrow Victorian three-storey house with a gray stone facade, short marble staircase and tall windows. I was staring at the indifferent ground floor window-panes for a few moments. Then I climbed the five steps and rang the bell. Above the massive black door with an engraved brass plate and street number, I could see the built-in camera. I expected someone to address me from the intercom, but nothing happened. Impatiently, I rang again. No reply. Nervousness seeped into my bones. Hell, it was possible that Jeromme had left, maybe to visit someone out of town, while I had only this afternoon to track him down and talk to him, before Swanwick and Graham decided that my alleged visit to Zoran was only my feeble attempt to buy some time. Desperate, I had already turned to leave, when I heard the characteristic hum and click of the electronic lock behind my back. I whirled and saw the door ajar. Without thinking, I grabbed the knob and hurried inside.

‘Professor Jeromme?’ I called in the narrow hall, while the door was locking automatically behind me. ‘Professor Jeromme, I must speak with you!’

The only answer was the echo of my own voice. I looked around.

The hall had a Spartan, simple look, with a dark oriental rug and a few framed photographs on the wall. I saw three doors, and a narrow staircase leading up. Nothing moved.

‘Professor Jeromme?’ I called out again and stepped forward. Dark foreboding was screaming in my skull, urging me to turn back immediately and run from this silent house, but my feet were carrying me towards the first door on the left, as if they belonged to someone else. I suddenly remembered all the times I was watching a horror movie hero — or, rather more often, heroine — climbing down to a dark tomb or up to a tower full of cobwebs, feeling disbelief and knowing that no one in his or her right mind would ever do such a thing in real life; no, sir, they would have to drag them there screaming and kicking. But now, while I was looking at my own hand turning the knob and opening the old, well-oiled and carved oak door, I knew that even in “real life” things often go the way logic does not approve.

The room behind the door was large, its walls lined with bookshelves. There was nobody inside. I came in and tried to take in everything at once.

Books were piled from the floor to the ceiling. The furniture in the room consisted only of an old Chesterfield armchair and a loveseat set around a small coffee table on a featureless gray carpet. I could also see a few low glass-cases displaying roughly chiseled artifacts looking genuine and ancient. I glanced at the book lying on the table: it was a huge, hard-cover volume written by Jeromme himself. A thin, ornamented ivory page-marker was jutting from the thick book. I looked quickly over my shoulder, opened the book and looked inside. The marked page showed Stonehenge, several sketches in black and white, resembling some of the artifacts displayed in Jeromme’s glass-cases, and a small-type text in three columns. Somewhere near the bottom of the third column, one word was circled with red felt-pen. I looked closer. The word meant nothing to me. It sounded like some strange, alien name from ancient times: Bellathukodrusus.

Something thumped in the house.

I winced, closed the book and put it back on the table.

‘Professor Jeromme?’ I called out loudly.

No reply.

I left the library and returned to the hall, approaching the door on the right. It was slightly ajar, and there was a small, functional, empty dining room with a tiny kitchen behind. That left only the third door, at the very end of the corridor, and the rooms above. While pressing the knob, I ordered myself — if I did not find Jeromme here — not to climb up there at any cost. Then I saw I would not have to do that after all.

I don’t know exactly how many humans and other living beings I had killed in my books, in the most brutal ways, trying very hard not to leave any visceral detail out; but I knew that it was in inverse proportion to my violent physical sickness at any sight of blood in the real life, even if it’s only a minor cut. Therefore, the way my stomach reacted in those moments was not surprising at all. But, just before that, there was a long moment when this little man hidden in my head — this dangerous fellow obsessed with anatomic voyeurism and pornography of violence, really alive and really content only when I write — had more than enough time to record it all, to the smallest horrible photographic detail.

The third room was Jeromme’s study; there were more books, more archeological findings, but the room was dominated by the antique, precious desk. And by Jeromme. Who was behind the desk. Beside the desk. On the desk. Above. And under... oh, yes, under the desk, too.

Red stripes, stains, wide, generous strokes and sprayed fans of drops were not a whim of some eccentric interior decorator, nor modern design intervention on the rug, walls, furniture and ceiling. The room looked as if someone had brought buckets full of blood and splashed them around. I inhaled the heavy, nauseous stench of a slaughterhouse. Something recognizable — with a lot of imagination and good will — as a leg, stood casually dipped into a puddle of red liquid clotting on the sofa. An ornate chandelier was additionally decorated with intestines gleaming sickly under the rays of the afternoon sun. The biggest piece of the mutilated torso, with bare ribs and backbone, was lying over the high back-rest of the chair behind the desk, while the central place on the dark leather stationery box, next to the marble inkwell, was reserved for the head; antique pens jutted from the empty eye-sockets. The skin had been flayed, exposing torn facial muscles hanging around the grinning jaw where the ring glinted. Jeromme’s head was laughing at me.

I made a half-turn, doubled over and vomited. My stomach heaved, emptying itself in a warm spray of liquid and small pieces of half-digested food. Shaking with violent spasms, I was vaguely aware that I was vomiting on somebody’s shoes. Then three things happened in rapid succession:

Something struck the top of my head; I plowed through my own vomit with my nose; and I sank into a black vortex that had suddenly appeared under me, sucking me into unconsciousness.

Waking up, I felt the pain in my head. There were smells all around me, entangled and confusing, and if not for the presence of more urgent and intensive sensation that made me feel like my skull was ripping apart at its seams, the smells would have absolutely dominated my senses during those long moments when my consciousness was still squirming at the end of the fishing-hook driving me quickly to the surface. I thought I finally knew how a fish felt while some skilful fisherman was rolling up the line, pulling it out of the water. I will never forget the explosion of the flash, and twin blades of light stabbing my eyes when I made the first trembling effort to open them and look around. I quickly closed my eyes again, let a few moments pass, empty of thoughts, gathering strength and courage to try once more. This time, it was a bit easier. Baffled, I stared at a dim, meaningless picture that finally began to sharpen and return into focus, after the rest of my senses had also started showing some signs of life. I realized that this painful, intensive flash was actually just a narrow, dim strip of moonlight.

I felt the insipid taste of vomit in my mouth, making me remember all that had preceded the hole in my memory, and my stomach contracted again, this time mercifully empty; someone was kind enough to wipe the products of my own chemistry from my face, but my muscles were so sore that only a surge of pins and needles informed me I still had something called torso, arms and legs.

I fully opened my eyes and immediately felt all other sensations disappear, cancelled and banished by what I had seen. I was lying on some old leather sofa, cracked and thinned with use. To the left there was a huge table shaped as a horse-shoe, with chairs set so that two dozen people might sit behind it simultaneously. On the wall behind the horse-shoe, a big painting was hanging, depicting the fox hunt and raised stones of Stonehenge far behind, in the foggy background. There were tall windows on side-walls, covered with heavy curtains, but the curtains were pulled open for a crack, allowing enough moonlight to spill in and enable me to see all of this, as well as what was lying directly in front of me.

I was aware that I was producing some kind of noise, something between a squeal and hysterical giggle, while I was sitting up on the sofa and approaching this big, strange object slowly and carefully, in order not to break this fragile illusion with some sudden or careless gesture.

It was a kind of a circular slab, almost four feet thick, and approximately seven feet in diameter. It was lying on the carpet directly under one of the windows, so that the moonlight was illuminating the transparent matter of which the slab was made. It was glowing dimly, like amber — amber filled with two curled bodies turned one against another like twin-fetuses in the womb, like some weird, human yin and yang symbol. I shook my head in helpless negation, fell on my knees and ran my palms over the smooth surface of the amber slab. The initial hysterical giggle now turned into a sob and tears welled in my eyes, running silently down my cheeks, falling on the transparent matter imprisoning two girls. Our little girls.

My mind was empty; I did not care where I was, who had brought me here, or how it was possible that Sandra and Manya were within my grasp, but at the same time inaccessible as if they were in another dimension. I did not even want to wonder if they were alive, if anything could survive such imprisonment. I knew, I felt they were alive with every nerve in my body, and the only sensation left in me in these short seconds of discovery was the feeling of triumph oddly mixed with an overwhelming pain which comes only after a long, long search, when you lose even the last hope. I have found them. I have found our girls.

The door screeched behind me.

I whirled to the source of the sound, feeling adrenaline being pumped up in my system, and I suppose that I had resembled some beast in those moments rather than a man, eyes staring and bloodshot, snarling and baring my teeth, ready to tear the throat of anyone who dared approach what was behind my back. Then a crystal chandelier high overhead blazed and I reflexively covered my eyes, blinded by the light, trying to see what was going on through my eyelids.

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