(1992) Prophecy Read online

  Praise for Peter James

  ‘A well-paced thriller that delivers maximum emotional torture’ Chicago Tribune

  ‘Grippingly intriguing from start to finish’ James Herbert

  ‘Too many horror stories go over the top into fantasy land, but Dreamer is set in the recognisable world … I guarantee you more than a frisson of fear’ Daily Express

  ‘A thought-provoking menacer that’s completely technological and genuinely frightening about the power of future communications’ Time Out

  ‘This compulsive story is a tale of the search for immortality … I cannot remember when I last read a novel I enjoyed so much’ Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Gripping … plotting is ingenious … in its evocation of how a glossy cocoon of worldly success can be unravelled by one bad decision it reminds me of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities’ The Times

  ‘Peter James, Britain’s closest equivalent to Stephen King’ Sunday Times

  ‘The suspense holds on every page, right to the end …’ She

  By Peter James

  Dead Letter Drop

  Atom Bomb Angel

  Billionaire

  Possession

  Dreamer

  Sweet Heart

  Twilight

  Prophecy

  Alchemist

  Host

  The Truth

  Denial

  Faith

  Dead Simple

  Looking Good Dead

  Not Dead Enough

  Dead Man’s Footsteps

  Dead Tomorrow

  CHILDREN’S NOVEL

  Getting Wired!

  Peter James was educated at Charterhouse then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the number one bestseller Possession, have been translated into thirty languages and three have been filmed. All his novels reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as science, medicine and the paranormal. He has produced numerous films, including the The Merchant Of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He also co-created the hit Channel 4 series, Bedsitcom, which was nominated for a Rose d’Or. He is currently, as co-producer, developing his Roy Grace novels for television with ITV Productions. Peter James won the Krimi-Blitz 2005 Crime Writer of the Year award in Germany, and Dead Simple won both the 2006 Prix Polar International award and the 2007 Prix Coeur Noir award in France. Looking Good Dead was shortlisted for the 2007 Richard and Judy Crime Thriller of the Year award, France’s SNCF and Le Grand Prix de Littérature award. Not Dead Enough was shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Thriller of the Year award and the ITV3 Crime Thriller Of The Year award. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London and near Brighton in Sussex. Visit his website at www.peterjames.com.

  PROPHECY

  Peter James

  An Orion paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 1992

  by Victor Gollancz Ltd

  This paperback edition published in 1999

  by Orion Books Ltd,

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  Reissued 2006

  An Hachette UK company

  7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © Peter James 1992

  The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781409133452

  This ebook produced by Jouve, France

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  To Jesse

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise for Peter James

  About the Author

  By Peter James

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As ever, I am indebted to many people and organizations whose help, knowledge and input has been invaluable. In particular, a very special thank you to the following:

  The Viscount Hampden for allowing me to use Glynde Place as the model for Meston Hall (although I should add that Glynde Place is in very considerably better condition than Meston and I have made changes both to the house and grounds). I should also add that the Halkin/Sherfield family are entirely fictitious and bear no relationship to any of the Viscount Hampden’s family nor previous occupants of Glynde Place.

  Brian Inglis. Roderick Main of Scarab Research for his invaluable help also on coincidence (and for the coincidences!). Robert Knox, Deputy Keeper of Oriental Antiquities at the British Museum. Frances Wollen. Canon Dominic Walker OGS. Dr Robert Morris of Edinburgh University. Miss Eleanor O’Keefe of the Society for Psychical Research. Jane Henry. Ruth West. Brian Dickinson. Tim Mair. Pippa Hooley, Bovine Consultant. Councillor Pam Stiles. Kathryn Bailey. Sophie Allen, Game Boy Consultant. Dr Nigel Kirkham. Dr Tim Carter. Dr Duncan Stewart. Dr Brian Kirkland. Mick Harris. David Garbutt. Nina Mackay (for lightning calculations on the backs of envelopes!). Ray Hazan and Peter Marshall of St Dunstan’s. Adrian Elliott. Mark Towse. Peter Orpen of AVT. Dr Robert Wilkins. Roy Gambier of the Shuttle-worth Collection.

  I am indebted also to the hard work of Sue Ansell; to my agent, Jon Thurley; to my editors, Joanna Goldsworthy and Richard Evans and my copy-editor Elizabeth Reeves. And to Bertie, for not eating all of the manuscript. And to my wife, Georgina, who through all the bludgeonings of chance kept me bloody but unbowed …

  PROLOGUE

  26th March, 1652

  The man and boy walked along the London street trying to keep clear of the gutter, the man hurrying, clutching the boy with sharp, bony fingers, turning down one dark alley then another, like a rat that has learned its way through a maze.

  The boy was confused and uncertain; he did not know who the man was and did not like him. His mother and the man had talked in low voices and his mother had not kissed him or looked him in the eye when the man had taken him away. They had walked for a long time through the failing light and the rain, and he was tired and hungry. And becoming afraid.

  After a while they stopped in the rear yard of a large house and the man knocked loudly. The door opened a few inches and dark, suspicious eyes peered out. ‘Come in,’ a
woman said and the door opened wider. The man pushed the boy ahead of him into the kitchen.

  The woman frightened the boy. She was tall, dressed in a black gown, and had a skeletal face with eyes that seemed to scold him.

  ‘How many years has he?’

  ‘Eight,’ the man said.

  ‘He stinks.’

  ‘He needs a wash, that’s all.’

  The woman studied the boy carefully. He had fair curls that were unkempt and matted, large blue eyes and a snub nose; his lips were drawn sullenly down, and his clothes were little more than grimy rags; his feet were bare. ‘Wait here,’ she said.

  The boy stood gazing at the stone floor, aware of the flames in the hearth and the pot above it from which came an acrid, unpleasant smell.

  After a few moments the door opened and the woman came back in, followed by a tall man with a limp. He was wearing a gold, full-length robe, and had a cruel, vain face framed with a carefully trimmed beard. He stood in the doorway and smiled approvingly at the boy. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You have done well.’

  He came closer to the boy, dragging his club-foot across the floor with a scrape, and stood still again, admiring him. ‘Very good.’

  The boy was impressed by the man’s robe and by his noble appearance. The man moved closer, then in one fast movement tore the clothes off the boy, letting them drop around his ankles.

  The boy looked at him in shock. The nobleman took a step towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy whipped his head around, bit the man’s wrist hard and bolted for the door on the far side of the kitchen.

  The man who had brought him grabbed him by his hair and held him tightly. The nobleman roared with laughter.

  ‘He is fine and spirited. You have done very well, for a change.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He eyed the boy’s body with mounting satisfaction. ‘I will reward –’ He broke off as a commotion beyond the kitchen disturbed him. He frowned; they were early. Much too early. They were not due for at least two hours yet, surely? He turned, staring through the open door and down the passageway.

  A man in a tall black hat, a high white collar and a black coat over tight, ribboned breeches strode through the doorway. He was followed by a group of soldiers wearing the red coats, grey breeches and waist sashes of the Parliamentarian Army.

  His grey eyes scanned the room then fixed on the nobleman. He spoke with a humourless smile. ‘Good evening, Francis,’ he said. ‘Have I interrupted some sport?’

  ‘What do you mean by this intrusion, Thomas?’ The nobleman stared with a vexed expression at the soldiers who were clustered inside the door; their faces beneath their buff leather hats carried an air of intent that disturbed him.

  The man in the black hat looked at the woman and the rat-faced man beside her. ‘Who brought this child?’ When they remained silent, his voice became hard and stern. ‘Who brought him?’

  ‘’Twas I,’ the rat-faced man said.

  ‘Clothe him and take him back.’ And then, to the woman, ‘How many servants are here in the house now?’

  The woman glanced at her master as if for approval to speak.

  The nobleman’s vexation was tempered by uncertainty. ‘Thomas, I’ll not have this. Take your men and leave forthwith.’

  The man in the black hat ignored him and continued to stare at the woman. ‘I want all the servants to be gone immediately and not return until curfew time. Understand?’ He turned and nodded at the soldiers.

  They moved forwards and seized the nobleman’s arms. His expression turned to fury. ‘Thomas – my brother, man! For God’s sake! What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘For God? For God’s sake?’ his brother echoed mockingly. ‘What dost thou know of God whom thou hast abandoned these five and twenty years?’ He led the way out of the door and down a passageway into a fine hall with a black-and-white tiled floor, candles in ornate sconces on the walls and gilt furniture. The soldiers, headed by their sergeant, frogmarched the robed nobleman, ignoring, as his brother did, his protestations.

  They went downstairs into a dark, evil-smelling cellar and halted at a door outside which a candle burned. Thomas jangled a key tauntingly at his brother, unlocked the door and led the way into a huge cellar chamber.

  A massive fire blazed in a hearth beneath a brick flue on the far wall, the echoes of its cracking and spitting resounding like gunshots around the brick walls and flagstone floor. There were stone tablets fixed to the walls, some containing five-pointed stars, others squares of numbers. Skulls and bones, human and animal, were laid out on shelves between lit black candles.

  On a raised dais like an altar at the far end was a bed covered with tasselled cloth. There were massive black candles at each corner and, beyond, a leather-bound book lay on a lectern.

  The man in the black hat nodded at his brother, whilst the soldiers stared round in awe and horror. ‘The fires of Hell already lit, my Lord?’

  ‘I’ll have no more of these games, Thomas. What do you want?’

  ‘’Tis no game, Francis, I assure you. None but that of your own making. I must depart, for I’ve a long way to go before dark. I’ll take my leave of you, if you’ll forgive me. Sergeant Proudlove will attend your needs; a good man by all accounts and a father of three young boys.’

  He nodded to the sergeant who had a blunt face with a broad, flat nose and dull eyes, and walked out. Ignoring the shouts of his brother, he closed the door of the chamber behind him.

  ‘Like to sport with young boys, your Lordship?’ the sergeant said.

  As the nobleman looked at him, and at each of the deadpan faces of the other six soldiers, the heat of his anger began to turn into the cold uncertainty of fear. ‘Your intrusion is intolerable,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘We has but only one more intrusion to make and we’lst be gone, my Lord.’ The sergeant grinned and several of the other soldiers let out coarse sniggers. Then he nodded and they gripped their prey tighter.

  ‘Unhand me at once, I say! What do you mean by all this?’

  The sergeant pointed to the bed. The soldiers pulled the nobleman over and thrust him face down on to it. The sergeant removed his waist sash and tied it across Francis’ mouth as a gag, yanking it so tightly that there was a grunt of pain. Then he carefully eased up the gold robe, exposing the nobleman’s naked, bony backside. Francis began to struggle harder, grunting louder. The soldiers moved as if they had done this before, four of them each using his own body weight to pin down an arm or a leg, the other two sitting on the small of his back. ‘Careful not to bruise him,’ the sergeant said.

  He walked slowly across to the fire, knelt and picked up the poker then ambled back to the front of the bed and held the poker up so that Francis could see it. ‘Thou enjoyest sporting with backsides, let’s see how thou enjoyest this, my Lord.’

  The nobleman’s eyes widened; the cruelness of them was gone now, replaced with a look of pleading. He mumbled desperately and incoherently through the gag.

  The sergeant removed from inside his jacket a slim hollow ox-horn and checked that the poker would slide freely through it. Then he placed his hands on his captive’s buttocks, which were slippery with the perspiration of fear, and pushed them apart, locating with his eyes the circular orifice of the anus. Using some of his own spittle he lubricated the end of the ox-horn, then again located the orifice and slowly but firmly inserted the horn, easing it in further and further.

  ‘Gently does it, my Lord,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt you.’

  There was a guffaw from the soldiers. The nobleman struggled, his buttocks twitching fiercely, but the sergeant continued pushing the tube in for several inches until only the tip was still showing.

  A low whine of fear escaped through the gag. Rivulets of sweat ran down the small of the victim’s back. Sergeant Proudlove carried the poker across to the fire and prodded the tip deep into the burning coals. The nobleman grunted, trying to speak, to call out
to him, but the sergeant stood in steadfast silence, watching the poker, carefully pulling on a thick gauntlet.

  After a few minutes he removed the poker. The last twelve inches of the tip were glowing red and white hot. He walked around and held it up in front of the nobleman’s face. ‘Ready, my Lord?’

  The nobleman’s eyes skittered as if they had broken loose in their mountings. Another, longer, whine of fear came through the gag, then another. He tried to speak, choked on his own saliva and coughed, then tried frantically to speak again. He writhed and thrashed, throwing one soldier off his back on to the floor, and pulling an arm free. A soldier grabbed it again, pinned it down and the other climbed back on to him, holding him down grimly. The sergeant thrust the poker back into the coals, holding it for some seconds with his gloved hand. The nobleman whined again, then again.

  The sergeant removed the poker, walked up to him, gripped the hollow horn, which had slid out a couple of inches, carefully inserted the red-hot poker into the end of it as if he was locating his sword into his scabbard, then slid it in, pushing firmly and grimly.

  There was a sharp hiss and bubbling sound as it burned through the soft rectal flesh, and the sudden sweet smell of roasting meat.

  A convulsion of agony bulged every muscle of the nobleman’s body and a scream tore free of the gag and bounced around the room like an unleashed demon; it came back at the soldiers from the ceiling, from the walls, from the floor: a screeching banshee that became louder every second as the sergeant pushed the poker relentlessly, holding it with both hands, twisting it, working it further and further in, forcing it up through the rectum, the colon, tearing through the peritoneum, melting and cauterizing a passage through the liver, gall-bladder and pancreas; through muscles, tendons, gristle, piercing the stomach wall, stirring the nobleman’s bowels and organs like a giant pudding until the poker was in up to the handle.

  The victim arched backwards, scattering all six of the soldiers. His neck twisted like a serpent, his head almost turning completely backwards as if his neck was broken. He stared the sergeant full in the eye and for a moment the sergeant thought he was going to clamber off the bed. Then the nobleman’s mouth contorted as if it were melting, and let out a low, barely audible moan of agony; slowly this began to rise into a howl, becoming louder and louder until, in its crescendo, it seemed to detach itself from the writhing, almost inhuman, object on the bed and explode in an independent ball of energy.