Black Ceremonies Read online

  “Well, if you had a car you wouldn’t have to use them.”

  Clifford held up a hand in protest. “Don’t start, Jeremy. Be satisfied with your victory.”

  Sheridan laughed. “Ah, Hugh, we’ll soon have you living in the twenty-first century – even if we have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

  “No, Jeremy,” Clifford protested, “I vow I shall succumb no further.”

  “Come on then, you old Luddite.” Sheridan led the way out of the railway station. Laughing, he said, “If we get a move on, we’ll have time to have a look for a computer for you.”

  Clifford shuddered. “Dear Lord,” he muttered. “Where will it end?”

  Jason Marshman drained another can of lager and tossed it out of the window of the Ford Fiesta.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Scott leaned forward in the passenger seat to turn up the volume of the car stereo.

  Jason pressed his foot down on the accelerator. To the accompaniment of the latest hip-hop CD, he drove precariously and well past the speed limit. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Hey, Bazza, stop hogging the joint, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bazza said from the backseat.

  Beside him, Deano whined, “It’s my turn next.”

  Scott opened another can of beer. “Bloody heap of junk. Why’d we have to nick this one?”

  “Shut up, Scott. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Deano was busy updating his Facebook status on his mobile. “He’s pissed off that Julie Tate hasn’t called him.”

  Jason laughed. “She’s a slag.”

  “That’s why he’s pissed off she hasn’t called.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Ring her then,” Jason urged his friend.

  “No way!”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a slag!”

  Jason laughed again. He would have been unaware of his phone ringing if he had not had it set on vibrate.

  “Maybe this is her calling me.” Pulling the phone from his pocket, Jason thumbed the answer button. “Yeah?”

  A soft voice spoke four words.

  “You what … the fuck?” Jason suddenly lost control of the stolen car.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jase?” Deano shouted.

  “I can’t control it!”

  “Stop fucking around!” Scott yelled.

  The vehicle veered from one side of the road to the other. He struggled with the steering wheel, but whichever way he turned it it would not direct the car from its course.

  “Slow down, man!”

  “Hold on!” Frantically, Jason slammed on the brakes, but the Fiesta would not slow.

  “Oh Jesus!”

  “Stop the fucking car!”

  “I can’t!”

  “You fuckin’ maniac, Jase.” Bazza laughed.

  Three phones rang simultaneously. Deano still had his gripped in his hand, he had been about to call 999. He read aloud the text message that had been sent to all three passengers – My name is Death.

  “You what?”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  Jason decided he had to get out of the car. He was not wearing a seat belt and he opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” Scott reached for the steering wheel. “Don’t be fucking stupid!”

  Jason wasn’t listening and threw himself from the speeding vehicle.

  “Fuck!”

  “Oh God!”

  Straight into the path of a lorry that was coming in the opposite direction. Jason didn’t even have time to scream before the lorry hit him. The young joyrider was killed instantly.

  His friends did scream as the Fiesta went off the road straight into a brick wall. Bazza was the only one who survived until the car’s fuel tank exploded.

  After a shopping trip that had seen Hugh Clifford make not one but two concessions to the modern age the two friends had gone to Jeremy Sheridan’s apartment. Although Sheridan had tried to convince him to buy an I-pod, Clifford had purchased a portable compact disc player. From now on, his train journeys would no longer be blighted by the menace of other people’s mobile phone conversations and crying children, he would be cocooned in a world of classical music.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, Hugh?” said Sheridan, pouring his friend a drink.

  “What a rigmarole,” complained Clifford. “So many to choose from, and then the range of payment plans! All of them expensive of course. Ah! What a dreadful experience. And not one I plan to repeat anytime soon - and to think there are those people who regularly change their make and model of phone.”

  “You’ve got to stay up to date.” Sheridan smiled.

  “But why? When something works perfectly adequately? Why change it?”

  “Technology marches on, Hugh.”

  “Cameras, Bluetooth, whatever that is, apps.” Clifford threw up his hands. “It’s all so confusing.”

  “You’ll soon be wondering how you ever managed without it all.”

  “Oh no, I won’t.” Clifford reached for his glass. “I will only make calls myself in emergencies. I will not become addicted to it like so many people have. Everywhere you go you see them - phone permanently attached to the side of their head, or slavishly typing their text messages. Like a lot of zombies!”

  Sheridan laughed.

  “There was an example of one such addict on the train this morning. Perhaps addict is not the right word to use, but it will do.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was armed with phone, notepad and pen. Written on his pad was obviously a list of phone numbers. He would dial a number, wait for a response, say something briefly, and hang up. Then, with a satisfied smile upon his face, he would cross out the number.”

  “How odd.”

  “Yes,” agreed Clifford. “Phone call after phone call he made, only uttering what could be the selfsame message.”

  “What do you think he was saying?”

  “I don’t know.” Clifford shrugged. “I did wonder whether it was: I’m on the train.”

  Sheridan grinned.

  “Gave me the creeps actually.” Clifford finished his brandy.

  “Another drink, Hugh?”

  “Hmm, yes please, Jeremy. Funny thing is he was waiting at the station before me, but I‘d certainly never seen him in Barrow Ashton before.”

  “Really? What did he look like?” Sheridan asked, refilling their glasses.

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  Sheridan shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Well, he was somewhat upon the short side, slim, elderly – certainly at least twenty years older than either of us. Very smartly dressed in a dark, not quite black suit, that looked quite expensive. He wore glasses and a somewhat ostentatious bow tie. His grey hair was almost white.”

  “Very—” Sheridan began to say, but he was interrupted.

  “Ye Gods!” Clifford cried, as his new mobile phone began to ring. “It’s started already.”

  “That’s odd.” Sheridan frowned. “You’ve not had chance to tell anyone your new number yet.”

  “Exactly, I thought by getting this damn thing that I would at least escape the plague of the call centre.”

  “Well answer it, man,” Sheridan urged.

  Clifford pressed a button, and held the phone to his ear. “Hello, Hugh Clifford speaking. Who’s calling?”

  Clifford recognised the softly spoken voice that said, “My name is Death.”

  He paled, and held the phone out to his friend. “It’s for you.”

  “Oh?” Puzzled, Sheridan took the proffered phone, and turned away, to stand looking out of the window. He had a picturesque view of the park. There was a man with whitish-grey-coloured hair sitting on a bench. He appeared to be crossing out something written on a notepad.

  “Hello?” Sheridan said. There was a thump behind him. “Do be quiet, Hugh, I can‘t hear. Hello? Who is this? Is there anybody there?” />
  There was no response.

  “That’s odd, there’s no one there. They must have hung up.” Sheridan moved away from the window. “Do you recognise the num …? Oh.” Clifford was nowhere to be seen. “Hugh? Where the devil are you?” Sheridan took another step forward and gasped, “Hugh!” when he saw he had fallen to the floor.

  Dialling 999, Jeremy Sheridan knelt by his friend desperately trying to find a pulse, but the line was dead, and so was Hugh Clifford.

  The Necronomicon

  At first I did not recognise the man on my doorstep, and had half a mind to pretend to be out. Yet, when he glanced briefly upwards, there was something about his face that stirred my memory. Not so much the features, but rather the man’s superior expression, that seemed somehow familiar.

  He was a little under six feet in height, and had thinning, sandy-coloured hair. He was carrying a brown leather briefcase.

  As I observed the caller surreptitiously from the upstairs window, I saw him look at his watch impatiently. And although I anticipated he would only turn out to be a door-to-door salesman or similar, I hurried downstairs to open the door and see what the fellow wanted.

  Before I could speak, he boomed out a greeting, “Hello Durward.”

  At once I recognised the distinctive, deep, Welsh voice. “My Goodness, Rhys-Morgan!” I said in amazement.

  “Yes it is.” The Welshman granted me the briefest of smiles.

  We shook hands. “Well, this is a surprise.” It had been many years since I had last seen, or even spoken with Gwyn Rhys-Morgan.

  I stepped aside to allow him into the house.

  “I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this, all unannounced.”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “Come on in.”

  “In here, is it?” Rhys-Morgan ignored the door to the sitting room, choosing instead to enter my library.

  I followed him in. “Unerring as usual, Gwyn.”

  “Could hardly miss the smell, Durward.”

  “Ah, of course. Well, make yourself comfortable. Can I take your coat and briefcase?”

  But Rhys-Morgan paid me no heed, instead putting his case in one of the pair of armchairs and slinging his coat over the back of the seat. Quickly he crossed the room and began studying the books that filled my bookcases. That came as no surprise.

  I was about to ask what he would have to drink, but my guest pre-empted me. “I’ll have a whisky please, Durward.”

  “It must be nearly fifteen years,” I said, handing him a glass. And I still found it annoying how he would call me ‘Durward’ after the Walter Scott novel rather than use my name – Quentin.

  “Yes, it must.” Rhys-Morgan paused in his examination of my shelves to take a generous sample of his drink. “This is good.” He drained the glass. “I’ll have another.”

  We had been at Cambridge together. Although we weren’t exactly good friends, it was through our shared interest in rare books that we knew each other. It was evident he hadn’t changed his manner.

  I poured him another whisky, and a silence ensued as Rhys-Morgan scanned the titles that lined the walls. I was about to comment on how I had obtained a particular volume, but he held up a hand to stop me.

  Awkwardly, I waited until he had finished his silent perusal.

  “An impressive collection,” he said at last, taking the seat that was unoccupied by his coat and case.

  “Thank you.” I remained standing.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what’s brought me to your door after all this time.” Once again he had pre-empted my question.

  “Well, yes, I was actually.”

  “I have it.”

  “It?” I queried.

  “It.” Rhys-Morgan nodded.

  I was puzzled. “I don’t understand, Gwyn.”

  What he said next astounded me.

  “The Necronomicon,” he stated simply.

  I gasped audibly. “The Necronomicon?”

  The Necronomicon: The book of the mad Arab, AbduI Alhazred. A legendary book of blasphemous and cosmic revelations. That utmost grail for seekers of occult knowledge, and of many bibliophiles. And Rhys-Morgan’s taste had always leaned towards the outré.

  “Yes.”

  “But how? Where did you find it?”

  “My search was long, and often frustrating, but I always remained persistent. I began with libraries and museums, antiquarian bookshops, eventually widening my search.

  “Would you believe the British Museum had the audacity to deny me access to their rare books collection? Perhaps they had some inkling of my intention to make their copy my own.” Rhys-Morgan paused, apparently brooding.

  “It was the same story again and again, at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, and in Rome, and Cairo. Miskatonic University in America, as well. Have you ever been to America, Durward?”

  I shook my head.

  “Terrible place. You’d do well to avoid it.” Rhys-Morgan frowned. “In so many places, I was either refused permission to view the book, or my enquiries met with denials that the book even existed.”

  I found what Rhys-Morgan said next to be somewhat far-fetched.

  “I have travelled the world, not just in body, but in astral form. My quest has taken me to many strange places and I have witnessed even stranger things.”

  “How extraordinary.”

  “You think I’m being fanciful don’t you, Durward?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I follow you exactly, Gwyn.”

  “It’s all right.” He waved a hand dismissively. “How could you know? You have spent your life blissfully ignorant of the true nature of the world around us.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

  “From major cities of the world to rundown and decrepit towns in rural New England. I have infiltrated cults of diabolic purpose, and searched the tombs of necromancers that lie in ghoul-haunted graveyards.”

  Fanciful was the word all right.

  “But all this was without success. Yet I did not give up. Then after hunting high and low, and far and wide, I finally tracked down a copy. Would you believe that after all my travels, I located one in an obscure part of Gloucestershire, of all places?”

  “However did you afford it? You must have come into a great deal of money, or had one of those incredible pieces of luck where you found it going for a song.”

  “It was in the possession of a man called James Goodman. I managed to make him part with it.”

  “Congratulations, Gwyn. I must say I’m honoured that you should think to inform me after all this time.”

  I refilled our glasses, and asked, “But have you read it?” At the same time eager that he had, but also afraid that he might have done so. For The Necronomicon has a dark reputation. It is said that its contents can drive a man insane.

  “Oh yes, I have read it. My mind reeled at the cosmic revelations, the unholy and unimaginable truths it contains. Yes, I have drunk deep of its forbidden knowledge.”

  Despite what Rhys-Morgan said, I wanted to see it for myself. I eyed his briefcase. “And you have it with you now.” A statement rather than a question.

  He nodded.

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” He rose, took his case from the other chair and moved to my desk. I joined him, and he opened it and took out the fabled Necronomicon.

  It was a large volume – a folio, I estimated at least a thousand pages in length, and bound in dark black leather.

  “Incredible.”

  With a trembling hand I caressed the cover, then carefully opened the book. “My God, Gwyn! This becomes even more incredible. I had anticipated John Dee’s translation – but this is remarkable.”

  Rhys-Morgan had managed to obtain the Italian printing of 1501, printed in black letter gothic type.

  “Yes,” he replied, “I too thought that there were no longer any copies of this edition extant. However, I suspect that it is not the original binding.”

 
; I marvelled at the pages of text – the fantastic legends that were the ravings of a man thought insane.

  Here and there were marginal notes written by numerous different hands. There were stains that might well have been blood. Some pages were torn and a few entirely missing – not surprising considering the book’s great age.

  I puzzled over strange cosmological diagrams. Wondered at perplexing rituals of sorcery and a blasphemous religion. And shuddered at illustrations of monstrous creatures labelled: From Life.

  “Wonderful!” I declared. My thoughts were covetous. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Oh, it’s not for sale.”

  I sighed. It was the answer I’d expected.

  “I doubt whether you’d be prepared to pay the price anyway,” he said, cryptically.

  Then after a moment he said, “At the back of the book you will find there is a list of names, such as is sometimes found in a family bible.”

  I turned towards the rear of the book and found the list.

  The first name was Anotonio Carlucci with a set of dates 1501-1505. Gian Mollisimo 1505-1519 was next. Then Ricardo Del Vascao, 1519; followed by Fernando Diaz 1519-1535. After him was John Maltravers, 1535-1554.

  “It’s impossible that these are dates of birth and death,” I said. “They must be dates of ownership of the book.”

  Another thought occurred to me, “These names, they appear to be written all in the same hand.”

  Rhys-Morgan nodded.

  “For someone to have traced the ownership of the book back through its history is a remarkable act of scholarship. But you are not responsible?”

  Rhys-Morgan shook his head. “No.”

  I read further down the list. Raschid Ibn Malik caught my eye. His dates read 1609-1759. “But that’s impossible, a hundred and fifty years.”

  Rhys-Morgan smiled at my bewildered expression.

  “Imagine how I impatiently turned the pages to find the end of the list, eager to add my name and thus confirm my rightful ownership.

  “Then imagine how my mind reeled when I saw beneath the name of James Goodman, already written in that same red ink, my own name.”

  “What? But that’s impossible.”