The Sign of Ouroboros Page 2

  Because it was a dream, she was not just the Kelly of today, but all the Kellys Brad had known. She was the young woman he struggled to understand, the little daughter he had loved more than life itself, the teenager who had so bitterly resented him for leaving her mother. And she was more. There was someone else looking out of her eyes, a stranger.

  “Kelly, where did you go?” he asked. “I just want to know you're okay.”

  “It's a bit late for that,” she said. “Seven years too late. I'm gone for good now. The world you knew is gone, too. Sorry, Dad. That's just how it is.”

  There were screams from outside, the sound of car horns and sirens, a huge crash that sounded like a building collapsing. The sky darkened. A great wall of glistening dark green appeared in the distance. There were more screams, people began to run. He grabbed his daughter's hand in both of his, determined never to let her go again.

  “Kelly, we have to stay together, there's a tsunami coming! We might make it to high ground if we get to the car!”

  She shook her head.

  “That's not what's happening, Dad. It's just the same old cycle coming around again, like it always does. Rise and fall, birth and death, renewal.”

  Brad stared out of the window. She was right; it was not a great wave that was blocking out the sun. It was a vast wall of scaled flesh, gleaming dully in green and gold, higher than the tallest skyscrapers. It moved ponderously, growing ever closer, smashing down buildings in great explosive clouds of glass, dust, and rubble.

  “Ouroboros,” said Kelly, pulling her arm away from his grip. As she did, the tattoo on her hand became a living serpent, uncoiling and rearing up, growing at an impossible speed, becoming so vast as to blot out the sky, its huge jaws gaping as it lunged down to devour him.

  “No!”

  Brad woke up shouting, tangled in sweaty sheets. As always, the dream left him disoriented, and he only slowly came to realize that he was not at home. He groped for the bedside light, flicked it on, and saw a standard hotel room.

  Okay, I'm in London, he thought. Get a grip. Focus. Right, this is the Russell Hotel, so-called because it's in Russell Square. It's Monday morning. Everything's normal.

  It was just after four, and Brad was badly jet-lagged from the six-hour trans-Atlantic flight, but he knew better than to try and go to sleep again. He had been having the same apocalyptic nightmare about Kelly for nearly three months, ever since she had stopped replying to his calls and texts. At first, he had dismissed it as an inevitable symptom of fatherly concern. She had once been his little girl, but now she was a grown woman of twenty-one and living her own life. Making her own mistakes. Maybe taking big risks. Of course, he was worried. And of course, it seemed like the end of the world, because in a sense, it was.

  But try as he might, Brad had been unable to rationalize the sheer scale of the disaster in the dream, and the way it was somehow linked to his daughter. And there was the recurrence of that word, Ouroboros. He had tried Googling it but ended up none the wiser. It seemed to be just one of many mystical symbols from ancient times. He wondered if he had he read about it, or maybe seen it in a TV documentary.

  “Something must have planted it in my subconscious, that's all,” he told the bathroom mirror. “And my God, Mister Steiger, you look like crap this fine morning.”

  His reflection showed a man just on the right side of fifty, with a full head of iron-gray hair, and what his mother had always insisted was a firm jawline, 'not a big chin.' He shaved, showered, and then went back into the bedroom to make himself some coffee. As he glanced across the room, he saw a form rearing up in the shadowed corner opposite. It seemed poised to strike. He flicked on the main light and the cobra-like being was revealed as a desk lamp.

  “And that's getting really old,” he muttered, pouring boiling water on instant coffee granules.

  He had been glimpsing serpentine forms for weeks, now. It might be a laptop cable on the floor, or the hose of a vacuum cleaner curled up in a closet. Anything elongated and winding might suddenly take the form of a snake, and move like one.

  Brad had not told anyone about the hallucinations, but was sure they were linked to Kelly. If he could find her, they would end and so would the nightmares. He clung to that belief.

  Now tidy yourself up, man, he thought. You've got to come across as a solid citizen, and concerned father.

  ***

  Brad looked up dubiously at the block of apartments. Much of London's notorious East End had been regenerated, thanks to the 2012 Olympics. But there were pockets of squalor. This apartment building looked shabby and neglected, especially in the drizzle of a dull English April morning. As he stood watching the entrance, a couple of girls emerged, deep in conversation.

  They look like students, he thought, moving to intercept them. Maybe they can confirm I've got the right place.

  “Excuse me,” he said, taking out a picture he'd found on Kelly's Facebook page, “I'm looking for someone who used to live here. Perhaps you knew her?”

  They had known Kelly to talk to occasionally, but did not know where she had gone. Brad thanked them, went inside, and sought out the building supervisor. Doris, a middle-aged Nigerian woman in pink overalls, agreed to show him Kelly's room, as it was technically still hers. The dim-lit corridors were suffused with the smell of junk food and less pleasant odors.

  “You say she was quiet, no trouble, Doris?” he asked the supervisor.

  “No trouble at all,” replied Doris, “not like some of these young rapscallions! Always in nice and early, Kelly, and she spent lots of time studying. A credit to you and her mother.”

  “But then she just disappeared?” he asked, looking around the bleak little room.

  She slept in that bed, he thought. Studied at that desk. But I get no sense of her identity in this place at all. It might as well be a hotel room.

  “Gone like a thief in the night,” said Doris. “That happens a lot in a place like this. But her rent was paid up a month in advance. Now that's very unusual, believe me! Anyway, this is it.”

  Doris unlocked the door of an apartment and ushered Brad inside. It had a few posters on the wall, but not for singers or bands. Instead, they showed exotic locations in the Middle East and Asia.

  “Did she travel a lot?” he asked, gesturing at the posters.

  “No,” replied Doris, “Kelly told me these were famous places in the science she was studying. Archaeology, I think.”

  “And she took all her personal belongings?” he said, opening the wardrobe to find nothing but clothes hangers.

  “Yes, all her stuff was just gone one morning.”

  Doris shook her head.

  “And you tell me you can't get in touch with her? That's a terrible thing. Family is the most important thing.”

  Brad could see nothing in the cramped little apartment that might help him find Kelly. All it told him was that she was no longer there. He felt a familiar despair start to well up as he looked through a chest of drawers, then the bedside cabinet. In the latter, he found a pamphlet. The front page bore an ornate circular symbol and a single word.

  “Ouroboros,” he said.

  He stood staring at the black-and-gold cover. He was back in the nightmare, the world ending, his only child rejecting him.

  How can I have dreamed this word? Maybe I read it somewhere, connected it to Kelly? Did it burrow into my subconscious?

  “Beg pardon, sir?” asked Doris, coming over to look at the pamphlet. “Oh, those things. Disgraceful ungodly gibberish!”

  “You've seen this before?” he asked, snapping out of his reverie and flipping through the glossy pages.

  “Yes, somebody left one on the hall table. I threw it in the rubbish!”

  Skimming the pamphlet, Brad could make little of it. It seemed to be promoting a bizarre, alternative view of history and spirituality, based on a rejection of Christianity and indeed, all Western culture. The tone struck Brad as less crazy than some religious propaganda he h
ad read. The language was insidious and seductive, not ranting and judgmental. But the overall feel was still disturbing.

  A cult, he thought. Kelly has joined some kind of cult. Brainwashed. Oh Sweet Jesus.

  “Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “No, take the evil thing away!” exclaimed Doris. “I'm only sorry I can't give you any more help.”

  Brad glanced around the bare room again, and shrugged.

  “Not your fault,” he said. “Thanks for letting me take a look around. Erm, do you mind if I use the bathroom? Had too much coffee at breakfast, I guess.”

  “No, not at all.”

  Brad felt slightly guilty, as he didn't need to pee. He just wanted to check and see if anything of Kelly's might have been left in the bathroom. It was a totally irrational impulse, and all the more powerful for that. All Brad wanted was some trivial object or item that would provide a sense of contact with her. But the cabinet over the sink was empty, though. He flushed the toilet and was about to open the door when he noticed a triangle of yellow material protruding from the plughole in the tub. He thought at first that it was a piece of plastic. But when he pulled it out with his thumb and forefinger, he found it was more like a parchment. It was dry, waxy in texture, with a natural curve to it. It reminded him unpleasantly of fingernails and calluses.

  Old skin. Dried skin.

  The sound from the cistern was dying away, so he put it into his pocket and rejoined Doris.

  “Thanks for letting me see her room,” he said.

  “It's the least I can do, you poor man,” said Doris. “I hope you find her. Come on, down to my room, I'll make you a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you, but I really need to keep looking,” replied Brad. “And this afternoon, I have to meet a guy who's good at finding lost people. A professional.”

  “Good luck,” called Doris after him as Brad left Trafalgar House. “And may the Lord go with you.”

  Let's hope he does, thought Brad. I need all the help I can get.

  ***

  The Peninsular Agency was based on the third floor of an office building in Canary Wharf, a thriving business district right on the river Thames. As he got out of the elevator at the reception, Brad felt reassured by the professional feel of the business. It was nothing like the shabby office of the old-style Hollywood private eye.

  These people look like they get things done, he thought. I've done my best, let's see if the professionals can do better.

  A smart young PA showed Brad into a bright, spacious office. Matt Arnold, a senior partner in the firm, came around his desk to offer Brad a firm handshake. The detective was of average height, slender, and about thirty-five. He also looked kind of nondescript, the sort of guy you would not remember if you saw him in a bar or walking through the park.

  “Can I ask why you got in touch with this particular agency?” asked Arnold, gesturing at Brad to take a seat. “No shortage of private detectives in London, after all.”

  “A colleague at my company recommended you,” replied Brad. “He said you have a good reputation for getting the job done.”

  Matt shrugged slightly.

  “That's in part because I pick cases I think I can solve,” he said. “Missing persons can often lead to frustrating dead ends.”

  “But you have found people who've gone missing, been abducted, whatever?” demanded Brad.

  “Sometimes,” said Matt. “Quite often, in fact. But I prefer to be up front about this. Most of a private detective's time is spent on mundane stuff. Checking up to see if a husband or wife is cheating, or if a mild-mannered corporate accountant is spending a lot of money on, what you American call, boats 'n' hoes. That kind of thing.”

  “Not as exciting as I'd thought,” commented Brad.

  “It pays the bills,” returned Matt. “But we didn't meet up to discuss my career choices. You hinted, rather strongly, that this is not a routine job.”

  “No,” said Brad, “here's the problem.”

  He explained that Kelly, who had been studying archaeology at London University, had simply dropped off the radar a month earlier. At first, Brad had assumed she had been preoccupied with college work. But after she had failed to return calls and texts for over a week, he had flown to London to find out what was going on. He had found that Kelly was no longer at her apartment, had moved out weeks earlier, telling no one where she was going.

  “But there was a clue, this group she was meeting up with?” asked the detective.

  Brad nodded and took the Ouroboros pamphlet from his jacket pocket, handed it over. Arnold looked at it, and frowned.

  “How do you pronounce that?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” admitted Brad. He considered mentioning his dream, decided not to. “I'd never heard of it before. But apparently, Kelly had cut her old friends out of her life and hooked up with these people.”

  “So where did you get this?” asked Arnold.

  “From the student apartments where she lived,” replied Brad. “It seems that these things had been spread around the campus recently.”

  Arnold frowned at the pamphlet.

  “‘The Earth doth like a snake renew,’” he read. “Very poetic. But if we're dealing with a cult, things could get very complicated.”

  “You mean legally?” asked Brad.

  The detective nodded.

  “Yes, because your daughter is an adult. So if she wants to join a bunch of nutters who dance naked in the woods on alternate Thursdays, there's nothing you can do to stop her, under English Law, that is.”

  “That's what the police told me when I called them from the States,” said Brad, feeling increasingly frustrated. “Look, Matt, I'm not paying you to tell me what can't be done. I want to find her and …”

  He hesitated, and Arnold nodded in sympathy.

  “You want to save her from herself, and from these weirdos?”

  “Yeah,” said Brad, “she's still my little girl and I want to save her. That simple.”

  “I'll do my best,” said Arnold. “And if you agree, I'd like to bring in an expert on cults and all things mystical? He charges reasonable rates.”

  Brad shrugged.

  “Money's no object at this stage,” he said. “I just want to know she's okay. And to talk to her.”

  Arnold paused for a moment, coolly appraising Brad before speaking.

  “And if, when you talk to her, she tells you she's fine and to leave her alone?”

  Brad took a deep breath.

  “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “And there's nothing else you can tell me?” asked Arnold. “No other data other than the raw facts about Kelly, her course, and so forth?”

  Brad looked out of the broad office window and saw the curved trail of a jet climbing high over London. It transformed itself briefly into a serpent, writhing in the sky.

  “No,” he said, looking Arnold in the eye. “There's nothing else. Just those facts.”

  “Okay, first the good news,” said the detective, “nobody can do much these days without leaving an electronic trail. If she's left the country, I have contacts who can find out where she's gone. If she's still in Britain, she must be registered with the National Health Service and other agencies. Again, there are ways to get that data.”

  “I don't care what it takes or how much it costs,” said Brad. “Just find her.”

  “I'll keep you informed,” Arnold assured him. “How long are you in London?”

  Brad shrugged.

  “My firm has given me a couple of weeks of unpaid leave. After that, we'll have to see. Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

  Arnold paused, and gave Brad an appraising look.

  “I can't let you tag along on my investigation,” he said, “but if I come across any situation that you can help with, rest assured I'll let you know at once. In the meantime, let me give you my card. You can call any time.”

  The detective took out a business card, then produced a second
card and handed them both to Brad.

  “Contact details for Marcus Valentine, the cult expert I mentioned,” he explained. “He lives in London. I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you about all this, maybe offer some advice on how to win Kelly over.”

  “I might just do that,” said Brad. “Thanks.”

  He was about to leave when he remembered the odd substance he had found in Kelly's apartment.

  “Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked.

  Arnold took the parchment-like material and turned it over.

  “Long time since I saw this stuff,” he said, with slight distaste. “An old girlfriend of mine kept a Burmese python. Bloody thing ate live mice, gave me the creeps. Eventually, I gave her an ultimatum, said it was me or him, and she chose Monty.”

  The detective handed the fragment back to Brad with a grimace.

  “Yeah, that's definitely shed snakeskin. Where did you get it?”

  Chapter 2: Close to the Serpentine

  Matt Arnold walked out of Hyde Park Corner Tube station and unfurled a map of London that he had just bought at a vending machine. He was dressed in smart but casual clothes, and looked around curiously like a tourist. It was a tried and tested way of looking like a borderline idiot, the sort of visitor to the capital that Londoners habitually ignore. At the same time, it allowed Matt to gaze at anything and anyone for longer than would normally be considered polite.

  Across the street was Apsley House, residence of the first Duke of Wellington. He gave it a puzzled stare, referred to the map again, then took out his phone for a picture. He added a selfie of himself in front of the Underground station sign.

  Right, that's more than enough camouflage for now.

  He checked his phone for texts. Sure enough, there was another one from Kathy Hopkirk. Sensibly, she had agreed to meet in Hyde Park in mid-morning. It was a public place, but one covering hundreds of acres. This would allow them to talk well out of earshot of onlookers. He crossed the road and went through the gate heading for the Serpentine, the sinuous lake that wound along the eastern edge of the park.