The Sign of Ouroboros Read online

  Odd coincidence, picking that particular location, he thought. Or maybe she has a weird sense of humor.

  ***

  Brad called Marcus Valentine after he got back to his hotel on Monday afternoon. The cult expert was keen to help in any way he could, so they arranged to meet up at Valentine's apartment the following day. After another uneasy night, Brad traveled via the London Underground to Camden, where Valentine lived in an apartment over a bookshop. He was buzzed in and was met on the landing by a man of about fifty who was almost a parody of the old-fashioned English gentleman. Valentine wore iron-framed glasses, a tweed suit, and a waistcoat with a watch-chain.

  “Mister Steiger? Please, come in!”

  “Thanks for seeing me so promptly, Mister Valentine,” said Brad, looking around a small apartment that seemed to be entirely walled with bookshelves. A large ginger cat lay sleeping on the only armchair that wasn't covered in books, magazines, or computer printouts. A PC stood on a desk by the window. Valentine cleared a space on a sofa for Brad.

  “Please call me Marcus. Can I offer you some tea?”

  Brad smiled, and shook his head.

  “Sorry, I'm a coffee kind of guy,” he replied. “And call me Brad.”

  “Very well, let's get down to business,” said Marcus. “Take a seat.”

  After talking for a few minutes, Brad felt sure that Marcus Valentine was a man he could trust. He opened up about his troubled relationship with Kelly.

  “Pat and I split up when she was five,” he explained. “I was away from home a lot; it put a big strain on the marriage. Then I had an affair, a dumb pointless affair that smashed up my family. And since then I've seen Kelly hundreds of times, but as the absent father. Deadbeat Dad. She called me that once. The fact that I work for an oil company doesn't help. Destroying the planet, all that stuff.”

  He paused, still feeling the hurt of uncounted blazing rows with his only child. Marcus gave a rueful smile.

  “You know,” he said, “I've often observed that it takes about five minutes for an American to reveal things that an Englishman might hint at after five years of friendship.”

  That got a laugh from Brad, and they moved on to the Ourobor0s cult.

  “Well, I might have a breakthrough there,” offered Marcus. “But first, what do you know about this group?”

  “Only what I read in this thing,” said Brad, offering the pamphlet he had found at Trafalgar House.

  Marcus glanced through the pamphlet, nodding.

  “Yes, this is much the same sort of thing as their website.”

  “They have a website?” exclaimed Brad. “They advertise their craziness?”

  Marcus looked at him for a moment, then asked, “Have you seen the internet lately? There are people proudly proclaiming their belief that the Earth is flat.”

  Good point, thought Brad. Why wouldn't a cult use every means to lure in converts?

  “So what's the real deal about Ouroboros?” he asked. “How long has it been around?”

  “Not long,” replied Marcus. “It first appeared in the mid-Nineties as a fringe group in what was called the New Age movement. What's odd about it is that its founder, Jonathan Clay, does have some genuine academic credentials. A doctorate in archaeology, in fact.”

  “Kelly was studying archaeology,” Brad pointed out. “Could there be a connection?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Could be. Like a lot of cults, Ouroboros seems to try and snare bright young people, especially students. Some of its adherents are highly qualified in various fields. One of Clay's own students, Olivia Ballard, was among the founding members.”

  “But what made this guy go off the rails?” asked Brad. “Assuming he wasn't wacko from the get-go, of course?”

  “He was the obsessive type,” said Marcus, “there are a few hints in his early work. You see, he was fixated by ophiolatry.”

  Seeing his guest's puzzlement, Marcus got up and gently dislodged the cat, who meowed in protest, looked at Brad accusingly, then stalked out of the room.

  “Here it is,” said Marcus, handing Brad a hefty volume. The title was Snake Cults In The Ancient World.

  “People worshiped snakes?” said Brad. “That really is crazy.”

  “But common,” said Marcus, perching on the edge of his desk. “The symbol of the Pharaohs was an Egyptian Cobra, for instance. The Aztecs worshiped Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. The Minoan civilization of Crete venerated snakes. In India, there were snake-beings called Nagas, rather similar to the Lamias of ancient Greece. Putting together all these legends, Clay formed the theory that they represented some kind of deep, primal truth about our species. A kind of vague ancestral memory, if you like. There's much more to it than that, I'm sure. Every cult has a big secret, one only revealed to the highest initiates.”

  Brad flipped through the book, pausing at illustrations of various idols and demons.

  “The only snake I know of that was linked to religion is the one that tempted Eve,” he remarked. “So does that make Ouroboros a devil-worshipping cult?”

  “Clay would deny it,” smiled Marcus. “The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol that has no evil connotations. Clay claims that the story in Genesis is a hint at the way other deities displaced the old, worldwide snake-cult. Thus the Ouroboros, symbol of regeneration and recurrence, proclaims the need to return to the old way, become one with Nature again, all that New Age malarkey. He's one of those clever debaters who has an answer for everything. And he did have a point, it must be said. Turn to page one-three-five.”

  Brad found himself looking at a picture of a snake-woman, voluptuously human from the waist up, sinuous reptile from the waist down.

  “Is that a Naga?” he said.

  “No, but she may be a close relation. That's a medieval painting of Lilith. In the Hebrew Talmud, Lilith was Adam's first wife, but was banished when God created Eve. Predictably enough, she is said to have born sons and daughters to him, all nice and scaly.”

  Brad stared at the weird hybrid creature.

  “I thought Lilith was Frasier's bitchy ex-wife in that TV show.”

  “The original one was even more formidable, and much more seductive,” said Marcus. “The Victorian painter-poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti was very keen on the legend. 'Not a drop of her blood was human,' he wrote, 'but she was made like a soft, sweet woman.' Rossetti depicts Lilith as a rebel against God, seeking to recruit Adam for a kind of cosmic revolution.”

  “Fascinating,” said Brad, closing the book. “But how did all this wild-eyed speculation turn into a cult that brainwashed my daughter?”

  “Good question,” said Marcus. “Something happened to send Clay over the edge. He was trying to prove that prehistoric stone circles were related to his universal snake-cult. He was excavating one in Ireland when he seems to have had a breakdown, or an epiphany, or something. Ouroboros emerged about a year later, and he turned his back on academia for good.”

  “Presumably he has some kind of headquarters?” said Brad. “Wouldn't that be a good place to start?”

  “Ah, now that's interesting, because the original headquarters of Ouroboros in London was closed down last year after the group moved out. Where to, we're not sure.”

  “But you do have something? You said earlier,” pointed out Brad.

  “Ah, yes, I've just relayed an email to Matt Arnold about it,” said Marcus, getting up and turning to his PC. “Come and look.”

  Brad watched Marcus log on to a site entitled Cult Survivors.

  “It's mostly an opportunity for people who've escaped cults to share experiences in a safe online environment,” Marcus explained. “Sometimes we're contacted by fugitives, people who are afraid of retribution. For instance, this person contacted me via a secure link.”

  The Englishman opened a window, and Brad saw a dialogue between Marcus and someone called Kathy Hopkirk. The last few exchanges concerned arranging a meeting.

  “And Kathy is a fugitive from Ouro
boros?” asked Brad.

  “So she says,” replied Marcus, carefully. “You'll note that she gives a mobile phone number. I passed that on to Matt first thing this morning to see if he can persuade Kathy, or whoever it is, to meet him in a public place. I prefer not to risk exposure, you see.”

  “Are they violent, the Ouroboros?” asked Brad.

  “Other cults certainly are, I've had a few close shaves with unpleasant people. Matt is a bit more clued-up on security matters, though.”

  As they watched, another message appeared.

  'They hacked me it’s not me don’t go!'

  Marcus and Brad looked at each other, then Marcus picked up a phone from the desk.

  “With a bit of luck, we can head him off,” he said. But his tone was not optimistic.

  Jesus, thought Brad, hearing the fear in the man’s voice as he tried to call the detective. What have I gotten myself into? Who are these people?

  “It went to voice mail,” said Marcus. “I'll keep trying.”

  “Try his office,” suggested Brad. “Maybe they can help.”

  ***

  Matt Arnold passed the Diana Memorial Fountain, being careful to take yet another selfie, all the while looking around for a likely contact. After walking around the Serpentine for ten minutes, he had seen no young women on their own. Then, when he was wondering if he should give up, he saw a black-clad figure emerge from the dense woodland up ahead.

  Could that be her?

  The figure raised a hand in a distinctive gesture and his phone buzzed. Another text.

  'I see you! Check your map. Old gazebo.'

  When he looked up, the figure had vanished. He did as instructed and saw that the gazebo was inside the woods. It was just visible, in fact. But then he saw a red-striped warning sign. CLOSED! UNSAFE STRUCTURE. Beyond it was a partly-overgrown footpath.

  Glancing around, Matt saw no one nearby, and simply dodged around the sign. As he did so, his phone vibrated. He quelled the urge to answer, let it go to voicemail.

  No distractions permitted now.

  It took him about ten minutes to reach the gazebo by the winding footpath, which stood in a small clearing. There was some scaffolding around the structure, but no sign of any workmen. The woman in black was waiting inside, leaning on one of the wooden pillars that held up a domed roof. Her face was in shadow. He had seen a poor-quality image of Kathy Hopkirk from her now-defunct Twitter account, and this young woman could be her. She had the same blonde hair and heart-shaped face. But something about the set-up made him uneasy.

  “Hello!” called the woman, sounding friendly.

  And maybe a bit too confident, he thought. Not the kind of jittery state of mind you'd expect.

  He stopped about five yards away and asked, “Kathy?”

  “Kathy couldn't come. Sorry! Will I do?”

  The stranger stepped forward out of the shadows and Matt took an involuntary step back. Though she was only about five feet tall, he was suddenly very aware that he was alone with her. The meet-in-a-public-place rule had been for Kathy's benefit. But now he wished he had stuck to it for his own sake.

  “Look, I don't know who you are,” he said, as she came closer. “But I'm just going to walk away now, unless you can offer me useful information.”

  “I am known as Salome. And I can offer you more than boring information, Matt,” she said, stepping close and looking up into his face. “I can offer you truth, peace, kinship. A place in a bright new future.”

  Her eyes, they're so green. Piercing. As if they're reflecting the sunlight.

  “I'm here to put a proposition to you,” she said, reaching up to touch the side of his face. He tried to disengage her hand, but struggled to move it.

  “Don't struggle,” she said. “Just listen. Listen to my voice.”

  Her words seemed to echo inside his head. He felt his will starting to ebb away.

  “We'd like you to be on our side, Matt,” she said, her voice silky, seductive. “Wouldn't you like to be on my side? Wouldn't it be so much easier?”

  My God, she's trying to hypnotize me. Almost succeeding.

  He made a huge effort and forced her hand away from his cheek.

  Salome tilted her head to one side.

  “My, you're quite a rarity, Matt. One in a million, perhaps. We've hardly ever found someone who can't be won over.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, trying not to sound as rattled as he felt. He backed away a few steps then turned to leave. He strode purposefully along the footpath, trying to ignore the itching sensation between his shoulder blades.

  “Think again, Matt,” said Salome. “You're running out of options.”

  Something about her voice had changed. It was not echoing in his mind now, but seemed oddly slurred, as if she had some sort of speech impediment. He paused and looked back, then started to run. What he had seen was impossible to his rational mind. But his instincts had taken over, and adrenaline was coursing through his system.

  Can't be true, it's a trick, he thought. Maybe more hypnosis, making me see things.

  He looked back again as he left the clearing and saw nothing except the heap of clothes on the ground by the gazebo steps.

  She was stripping off her tee-shirt, he thought. Her skin, her face, all changing.

  He stumbled over a tree root, recovered, and went back onto the path.

  It was all a hallucination. Nobody can elongate their body, nobody can change the shape of their head.

  Matt slowed, glanced back yet again, and saw no sign of pursuit.

  Is she running around naked?

  Confused, he slowed to a walk, starting to doubt everything that had just happened.

  So I go back to Steiger and explain that, having failed to mesmerize me, a cultist did a shape-shift and left her jogging pants behind in the park. Then he'll pay my fee with a smile.

  A swishing and rustling in the undergrowth to his left sent his heart racing in panic. He would withdraw, regroup, and maybe drop the case.

  “I need a holiday,” he said to himself. “A long vacation. Maybe a cruise.”

  There was a loud hiss that was a little like a humorless laugh. He looked down and saw huge, green eyes in a wedge-shaped head. The serpent reared up as Matt recoiled, screaming in primal fear, he tripped and fell flat on his backside. He reached behind him and felt a tube of scaly muscle writhing, tightening. Coils wrapped themselves around him as he struggled to stand. He tore at the huge reptile with frantic strength as it wrapped itself round his chest.

  As the constriction began, the hideous face came close to his. As he blacked out, the last thing he was aware of was a forked tongue caressing his face.

  ***

  After some discussion, Matt Arnold's PA informed Marcus Valentine that the detective's phone contained a tracker that could not be turned off. It was at the rendezvous point where he had been due to meet Kathy Hopkirk. And no, the PA could not contact her boss, but that was not strange when he was working a case.

  Marcus ended the call and looked at Brad.

  “We could call the police, I suppose,” said the Englishman.

  “And tell them what?” asked Brad. “That a private detective is doing his job? All we have is a bit of web traffic that might be a hoax.”

  “All right,” said Marcus, scooping a bunch of car keys from his desk. “We can damn well go and check things out ourselves!”

  “I like your style, Mister Valentine,” grinned Brad as he got up, glad to be taking some kind of action.

  It took them nearly an hour to get to Hyde Park from Camden, thanks to central London's notorious traffic. More time was wasted finding a parking space, and by the time they got to Hyde Park, it was nearly two hours since the ominous message. As they drew near the park's main gate, Marcus pointed out an ambulance parked by the Serpentine lake. People in uniforms, police and paramedics, seemed to be busy in the area.

  “That's not a good sign,” observed Brad.

  Whe
n they arrived at the police cordon, they saw the paramedics carrying a covered body out of the woodland. Uniformed police were talking to a couple of teenagers.

  “What could have done that to him?” the distraught girl was saying, while her boyfriend tried to comfort her.

  “Three guesses as to who found the body,” said Brad. “Should we make ourselves known?”

  “We're honest citizens,” said Marcus. “What choice do we have?”

  Half an hour later, they were in an office at New Scotland Yard talking to Detective Sergeant Declan Healy. Brad was initially skeptical about the officer, given his earlier experiences with the Metropolitan police. But Healy came across as warm and perceptive. It was a long, involved conversation but eventually they produced formal statements that Brad and Marcus signed.

  “And now we've got the paperwork sorted,” said Healy, “maybe we can have an informal discussion? Because I don't mind saying, this is a weird one.”

  “Anything we can do to help,” said Marcus. “Though I realize you can't disclose too many details to us.”

  “True,” said Healy, “but I don't mind disclosing stuff the papers will get by tomorrow anyway. Preliminary findings are that Mister Arnold was crushed to death.”

  “Crushed?” asked Brad. “Something fell on him, or he was run over by a vehicle?”

  “That's what I thought,” replied Healy, “especially as he was found near a building closed off because it was unsafe. But the poor bloke's ribcage was cracked by pressure from all around his body. Something literally squeezed the life out of him.”

  “Like a boa constrictor?”

  Healy looked at Brad, clearly puzzled by the suggestion.

  “I suppose so, but we don't get many of those running amok at this time of year.”

  “But you couldn't rule it out?” insisted Brad.

  “We'll leave that to the forensic team,” said Healy, turning to his computer screen. “Now, on to the issue of your daughter, Mister Steiger. I see you tried to report her as a missing person?”