The Trespass(112)

Still the small footprints led them on. Dracup felt an invading weakness, a sapping of energy that made him want to stop, lie down, sleep forever. The box was getting heavier and he felt the heat of its contents against the bare skin of his arm. He shifted its weight and found himself struggling for breath.

“You have to fight it,” Moran said through gritted teeth. “She got this far and further – so can we.”

Dracup grunted a response, conserving his resources. He wanted to tell Moran that he was grateful for his company. To make this journey alone would be unthinkable. And yet, Natasha had done just that. He struggled to understand why. Was it fear? Or a response, perhaps, to some whispered summons? He mopped his brow and caught Moran’s shoulder. “I have to put this down. I can’t carry it any further.”

Moran nodded. “No one else around. It’ll still be here on the way back.”

Dracup planted the box at his feet with a grunt. The box fell away, peeling back from the glowing metal inside. They watched the cardboard turn to ash.

“Come on,” Moran prompted. “There’ll be time for answers later.” The policeman shifted his backpack with a grunt.

There was a strange look on Moran’s face. Dracup wondered what was in the backpack. He opened his mouth to form the question, but Moran’s expression silenced him. Keep walking, Dracup. Just keep walking.

They passed through a glade of petrified trees, the trunks huddled closely together as if for comfort. By an exposed root lay the skeleton of some old inhabitant, its skull resting upon yellowed forepaws, dark eye sockets observing their passing with ambivalent stare. Moran was muttering to himself. “My God, my God. This is awful.” He had wrapped a handkerchief across his mouth, but Dracup could see the fear reflected in his eyes.

“Don’t look at anything,” he advised. “Just keep going.” He passed Moran his water bottle and the DCI took a furtive swig.

“Thanks.” Moran returned the bottle and mopped his brow. “It’s getting warmer.”

And it was. As the trees thinned, their breath became laboured. Dracup’s lungs felt starved of oxygen, as if some unseen process was greedily drawing all the air to itself.

They emerged from the glade into a flat, empty space. Dracup raised his hand. “Wait.” He pointed to the ground. Moran followed his finger and saw the problem. The footprints had disappeared. The plain ahead was covered, not with the now familiar layers of ash and bone, but with a fine, orange dust. As they stepped onto its surface their feet left only the faintest of marks.

Moran peered into the distance and caught Dracup by the arm. “Hold on.” He pointed a thin forefinger. “Take a look over there, would you, and tell me I’m not seeing things.”

Dracup looked. In the distance he could see a faint, green phosphorescence, quite different to the buried ziggurat’s luminosity. It seemed localised; the light did not spread across the landscape but remained static, like a theatre spotlight picking out the leading actor in a play. He took a deep breath. Whatever it was, that’s where they needed to be. Like a beacon, its magnetism was irresistible.

“She’ll be there,” Dracup said.

The smell grew ever stronger and Dracup was compelled to follow Moran’s example, removing his jacket and partially covering his face with the material. He kept his eyes on the vision ahead, his fear for Natasha tempered with a powerful curiosity.

Moran broke the silence. “It’s a tree.”

Dracup squinted at the brightness and the object swam suddenly into focus. Moran was right. A magnificent tree, stretching its branches high into the fetid atmosphere. They were close now, perhaps a few hundred metres. The tree was standing in its own circle of light, the ground within alive with plants, flowers and shrubs of many different varieties. The scent was overpowering but Dracup had forgotten his discomfort. He held his jacket loosely by his side and gaped at the oasis of life surrounding the tree. He could hear birdsong, musical and delightful to the ear, the humming of bees, the gentle sigh of a warm midsummer breeze. But his attention was on something else: in the centre of this pool of fecundity, legs crossed, head tilted slightly to one side as if listening to a favourite story, was Natasha.





Sara led Farrell through the empty corridors. She felt very alone. Farrell touched her shoulder. “Wait.” He stopped and cocked his head to one side, listening. Sara’s shoulder tingled where his hand had rested. She clamped her teeth to her bottom lip angrily. What sort of a woman was she? How could her emotions be so wayward? In that moment she saw her future clearly. She murmured a prayer of thanks and gave Farrell a non-committal smile.