+ Ronald "Al" Frost - previously AFO with the Met's Diplomatic Protection Service
+ Chloe Thornes - ex-MI6 case officer with overseas experience in Russia
+ George Crackanthorpe - old-hand MI6 secondee
+ Holly Walker - a PISCES shrink and professional skeptic
+ Simon Spencer - millennial bad-boy computer hacker given another chance at life
WONDER WALL: SESSION THREE
"Forget it. This stinks. The whole operation stinks. And I'm gonna find out why..."
Leaving Hatton Garden Police Station, officers Frost, Thornes and a bandaged-handed Spencer pondered what they should do next. The had more than enough clues to go around - the dead shoot-out suspects and its injured survivor (still in ICU), the Kacey woman, the blue stone - but nothing they felt was concrete just yet. Phoning Control, Frost gave a brief and deliberately imprecise run-down on what they'd learned and informed his superiors the team would join up with their colleagues in Team Wenseclas and help with their "rat problem."
At the same time Crackanthorpe and Walker were having their own desires for aid. Drenched by rain, standing in a graveyard full of names, lost out of time, they sneaked out as swiftly as possible. Again they patched their wounds back in their car, Crackanthorpe applying bandages to his blood-soaked belly and switching to a spare shirt. Walker called the other team, requesting they meet up at Brixton Police Station to assist, as Crackanthorpe started the car and headed for an unannounced meeting with Det. Sgt. Styles...
At Brixton Police Station...
The two officers badged their way into a meeting with Styles, who arrived a few minutes later with coffees. "I was expecting you'd be back," he said, handing the PISCES agents hot drinks. "Been looking around the estate, have you?"
En route Walker and Crackanthorpe had decided Styles knew more than he might let on - their plan was to paint a picture of potential, but entirely fake, kidnap suspect and then use that description to coax out any further talking points. They were not, as yet, sure he was dangerous.
Carefully, they talked about the "individual" they'd seen enter the old chapel and had followed, hoping it'd elicit interest. Instead, the detective sat and listened, doodling in his notepad.
"I see," he said finally. "So your suspect - did he look something like this?"
He held up the notepad. On it was an enormous man-rat thing, its grotesque mouth filled with sharpened teeth, filthy fur knotted and jutting at angles, fingernails like claws. It wore a dirty waistcoat and pantaloons, which would've been amusing if it didn't give it an air of unsettling, human menace.
"Oh," said Crackanthorpe.
"You must think we're all bloody stupid 'round here," continued Styles.
You don't believe in him? asked the PISCES agents. Far from it, replied Styles. He grew up on the estate. All the kids knew about the rat-man; about how Wyndham Court had been built on the old Wyndham House for Waifs and Strays. It was whispered that Wyndham had been a good man once, caring for orphaned children, but he'd fallen in love with one of his wards - an abandoned Hugenot girl named Mason - and had married her. That girl was a witch.
Old Scratch, the story went, was the vile offspring of their union.
He'd thought it was just ghost stories made up by adults to scare kids - right up until his own brother, Blair, vanished one night. He thought he dreamed of the rat-man. Certainly no one listened to him when he tried to tell them about it. For years the police have looked into the estate's run of disappearances - both officially and in a private capacity - but no one has proved anything.
Crackanthorpe passed his cell-phone to the detective, showed him photographs he'd taken from the chapel.
"I used to play here as a kid," said Styles. "I don't remember that mural -" He pointed at the unfinished, spray-painted picture of the man on the chapel wall - "but it's dressed like Lynton Prince."
"And the gravestones?" asked Walker.
They were empty, Styles said, but Walker thumbed them up. "Not anymore," she said.
"Impossible." The detective swept through them, one by one, then stopped at his brother's name - carved deep into Victorian stone. "Impossible," he said again. "They weren't there before."
He said nothing more, just rose with his coffee and walked out.
Planning Ahead...
The five agents met at a greasy-spoon down the road from the police station to come up with a plan of action. Obviously Styles knew about Old Scratch - but there was more going on than what even he knew. Spencer dug into Wyndham's history as they talked, discovering that:
- Wyndham built the original house for orphaned children in the 1870s.
- Around 1885 he had began doting on one of his wards, an attractive young Hugenot girl, and subsequently married her. A child was born a few years later
- Stories that their child was born deformed had entered urban legend, with a number of blogs continuing rumors that the Wyndhams had kept their son locked up inside the house
- In 1891, at the height of the "Russian Flu" that swept Europe, many of Wyndham House's children died and were buried
- Neither Wyndham nor his "witch" wife had death certificates listed in public records. While the wife simply vanished from view (and reputedly ran off, having found a new, perhaps richer, lover), Wyndham was last seen at a thanksgiving party in 1904 - commemorating 30 years of his house's service to helping children. He was nearly 70.
While that was going on, Walker got a telephone call from PISCES laboratory. They'd tested the samples she'd sent and come to the following conclusions:
- The fur was from a black rat, though obviously too long for typical rattus rattus, but also contained human mitochondrial DNA
- The fur was exceptionally dirty and contained high traces of feces, heavy metals and long unused chemicals. While the district of Lambeth that Walker claimed she'd recovered them had historically been a factory site, that was back in the Victorian era - this sample seemed like it'd only been taken yesterday, not a century ago!
- Mud traces came from the River Effra, which flowed under Lambeth but had been "lost" in the 1920s when it was covered over
- The purple cloth was exceptioanlly old, normally used for toy dolls, and had last been manufactured in 1903 - more distrbingly, the lice that the lab workers had shaken out of it were fat with Victorian chemicals and were of a breed that had gone extinct in London in the 1950s
- If Walker was dealing with rats or environments like this, she should get a tetanus shot at the very least - the virology present was exceptionally disturbing
With that, the team decided the threat posed by Old Scratch superceded the other investigation.
Concluding that marriage and death certificates might be lodged with the church (since the house had a chapel) and offer more information on whether the rat-man was human or something else, Spencer decided to visit the local parish church for clues.
Walker, Crackanthorpe and Thornes went to see the elderly Grandfather Cook at the estate - he was pretty talkative before and might have more information on Old Scratch.
Frost headed to the estate's chapel - though he wasn't too happy he'd be doing it alone. So he brought Plan-G - a pistol.
At the Wyndham Estate...
Crackanthorpe, Thornes and Walker made their way across the estate and up the stairs to Cook's flat. They were sure the kids were watching them from beneath their hoodies.
Upstairs they banged on Cook's door. All was silent. A strong stench of feces assailed their nostrils, a smear of excrement on the letterbox. Crackanthorpe choked down the smell, hammered on the door with his fist - "Mr Cook? Open up, this is the police!"
The next door neighbor popped her head around. "Police? It's about time you got here. Is he alright? He's been screaming half the night."
The three officers looked at each other then readied their batons. "Does he have any enemies?" one asked.
The neighbor motioned at the dog-crap. "He must've upset someone."
Now with enough probable-cause, the door burst open under a well-placed kick. The smell of feces struck them - dog crap had been shoved through the letterbox, followed by firelighters, in an ill-thought-out plan to start a fire.
The flat was dark, the curtains pulled. The officers moved through. Empty. The last door - Cook's bedroom - was closed. Tentatively they pushed it open. A rat scurried past, whiskers tinged red.
The sight made them reel.
Sat on the bed, half-sprawled against the wall, sat Cook. He was dead. Very dead. Bone shone through is gnawed-upon flesh, his hands splayed in defense, fingers missing. Rats crawled over him, satiated on flesh. One particularly fat one wriggled from his eye-socket. Another couple twisted and fought within his stomach, which lay open - ripped open from the inside.
Between his legs, his peeled off face stared up at them.
And there, daubed on the wall with paint, was the SE1Nation logo - a calling-card.
Behind them someone screamed, nearly rupturing their eardrums. It was the neighbor, who'd followed them in, and Thornes chased her out to the balcony - ringing the police as he went. Outside a crowd was forming, a mix of old and young looking to see what the shouting was about. Cell-phone cameras flashed. The sound of sirens drifted from far away.
Inside Crackanthorpe and Walker tried to ascertain cause of death, but it was too difficult - the eviscerated corpse was too mangled. Ambulancemen and police officers surged into the room, telling the PISCES officers to get out - but fall silent when badges get shown.
"Must've been a heart-attack," said one of the detectives. "Must've died in his sleep and the rats got him."
Crackanthorpe balked. Is that even logical? What about the mural on the wall?
"Maybe they saw he was dead and broke in and stole his stuff," said the detective. He was obviously in no mood for contrarian ideas.
Outside on the balcony the kids were laughing.
Prince did this, the three officers decided. Now was time to pay him a visit.
On the way back to the car a group of kids followed on bikes. One lobbed a Coke can at Crackanthorpe and jeered.
"You're marked, copper! You're marked!"
They rode away, laughing, before anyone could say anything.
The wound on Crackanthorpe's belly itched.
Meanwhile, at nearby St. Peter's Church...
Spencer found the local parish church, St. Peter's, quite easily. Though locked and unused except by a dwindling congregation, the deacon was only too happy to show the "local historian" the old church records in the nearby vicarage. While he made tea, Spencer sifted through the records - only to discover that the Wyndhams' birth registration has been struck from the list, with only a reference to a diary left in its place. Hastily grabbing the vicar's diary for 1887 from the shelf, he discovered:
- That the vicar had been friendly with Wyndham when he first moved to the area to build his home for abandoned children; at least at that point, the philanthropist had seemed normal
- He had warned Wyndham about the youngster Mason, had told him not to marry her, but their friendship soon faltered - and despite his refusing to consecrate their marriage, Wyndham married the girl in a civil ceremony - and from then on Wyndham remained almost entirely secluded in his home, refusing to allow his child-wards to leave even though new ones regularly arrived
Some of the pages had been ripped out and hurriedly hidden in the backcover. He slotted them in the correct places. These were far more disturbing:
- When the couple had a child, the vicar tried to visit to baptize the child - but whatever he found chilled him to the bone. "That witch has done this," he wrote in a scratchy hand. "God help me, the thing they have conceived looks like Old Scratch..."
- Despite not visiting the mansion again, he wrote of whispers other parishoners told, of the chapel being used for "Ungodly Sabbaths" at certain times of month
Soon after the unnamed vicar either died or moved away, for a new script replaced his own. The later vicar, despite vague mentions of the Wyndham House, seemed far more interested in social-calls among the city's rich and upwardly mobile than tending to a wayward flock.
Taking some photos and thanking the deacon, Spencer double-timed out of the church.
Checking Out the Chapel
Frost made his way to the chapel, a pistol in the holster under his suit-jacket. It was still daylight, but the place was gloomy, the roof unnerving in its construction. He gave the door a shove - and it squeaked open under his shoulder, just enough for him to squeeze through.
The chapel was still dusty but there were more footprints now, as if dozens of people had recently visited. Methodically he searched the place. The mural of the woman on the wall - Mason, he thought, Wyndham's witch-wife - was still there. But there was an addition not in Crackanthorpe's earlier photographs: a line of ruby red blood stained her mouth, trickling down her chin. Paint? He touched it - and it came away wet and coppery.
He swore she was smiling.
Up near the nave his feet creaked on the old wooden floorboards. He tapped some, finding they rang hollow. A trapdoor. Lifting the boards, he played his light below. A brick shaft, with simple metal ladder-hand-holds, descended twenty or thirty feet down to a tunnel or sewer below.
The sound of singing or chanting drifted up, along with the gurgling of water.
Quietly, Frost returned the boards to their position and phoned the team. Apparently they were on their way to Prince's. He'd have preferred if they'd been around to check out the tunnels - but apparently it was time to pay the piper a visit...
Paying A Visit to Prince
Prince lived on Madsheath Terrace, a run of working-class terraces (rowhouses) on the Lambeth-Peckham border. Spencer arrived first, being closest, and quickly did a reconnaisance. All the house's lights were on, the front yard cluttered. A child's tricycle sat forlornly under the living-room window, which flickered with light from a TV set. The buildings next door also had lights on - though the left one only upstairs. Spencer waited.
The rest of the team showed up in their cars and parked a way down the road, so as to not draw suspicion. There didn't appear to be any look-outs - so perhaps Prince had bought into his own magical-myth and thought himself untouchable? After a brief planning, they decided Thrones and Crackanthorpe would go and knock on the door, while Walker waited in the car and Spencer kept look out. Frost had not yet arrived.
The two PISCES officers banged on the door. A muted conversation from inside, the sound of a television paused mid-flow. The front-door opened and a stout, young Black man in a blue tracksuit looked the suited man and woman on the doorstep up and down.
"It's the feds," he shouted inside.
"We're not with Organized Crime. We're just here to talk," said Crackanthorpe.
"Show them in," came a voice from inside.
Asking if the pair had a warrant - which Crackanthorpe denied - Tracksuit warned them they could only go into the living room and ushered them through. Seated inside, playing a videogame, was Prince and three of his cronies. The scent of weed and something else, a tang like cinnamon, hung in the room.
Banter occurred, Crackanthorpe informing Prince he's "familiar" with what's going on with the estate and asking if he recognized the broken French that Old Scratch had threatened him with in the chapel. Prince laughed. "I'm a prince," he said, princes become kings - and I'm King Rat. "You'd better turn tail and get out of this, if you know what's good for you." He looked at his posse, who chuckled.
Passing over her phone, Thornes showed him a photograph of the deceased Mr. Cook, hoping to get a rise.
Prince squinted at it. "I recognize this; it's from Nightmare on Elm Street right?" He passed it to his friends, who get an equal kick out of it.
None too impressed, the PISCES officers ask another few questions but it's evident Prince is toying with them. His rat puns elicit laughter from his boys, but increasing ire from his interviewers. They decide to leave and Prince follows them to the front-door with mock civility.
"If you want to come back and play a game, you do that. Not that I think you're very good at games, Mr. Policeman. This whole country's coming down, London's gonna have a new king. The lion, the unicorn, the dragon - and the rat."
He slammed the door behind them, laughing.
Back in their car the officers talk over what to do next. Now Prince and Old Scratch knew who they were, staying at their residences didn't sound so hot. Spencer phoned his uncle, looking for a safehouse - the best on offer was an attic in a warehouse in Brent, and they'd have to be out before a ton of hookey gear was moved in. Better than nothing, sure, but not great.
Frost, having arrived while Crackanthorpe and Thornes were in the house, summed up their options: the tunnels under Wyndham Estate had to be cleared and Prince needed to be taken care of. They needed a professional hit-team - a Jaguar Squad, comprised of SAS - to assist. Everyone agreed.
That night they bedded down in the unfamiliar safety of the warehouse. Thornes, checking online for what SE1Nation was up to, found another music video. More occult imagery, more lingering shots of the crown and logo - and now she spotted Tracksuit, his face masked but clothes recognizable, flashing a pistol. The lyrics were normal enough but one line stuck in her head: "I ain't no familiar, but you'll be familiar with me."
With all the talk of witches and familiars, Frost checked PISCES' intranet for anything worthwhile. While there were no operational histories he did find that:
- Familiars were living boons gifted to witches by Satan or other dark deities
- No one was too sure if a witch was created by the god or given birth to by the witch herself (though assuming Old Frost's pedigree, Frost rather thought it the latter)
- A familiar could enter places its master or mistress could not, such as consecrated ground
- While a familiar could be passed down through a bloodline, it was also possible for a familiar to find a new master or mistress if they were otherwise freed (through the witch's death or imprisoned, or if they absolved themselves of the Devil's powers)
Crackanthorpe looked into open-source data on the tunnels that apparently ran under Wyndham. A crisscross of Victorian sewers spanned the old estate, linking with the submerged River Effra. More disconcertingly, the old maps showed that - while Wyndham House had been demolished to build the estate in the 1960s - the old manor's basement remained. The tunnel Frost had found beneath the chapel appeared to lead directly to it!
Before they slept they listened to the news. The main headline: firefighters were tamping down the embers of a massive fire that had burned down an Indian restaurant in Bethnal Green.
It was the same restaurant where Ahmed Dutta and his brother Yussef had lived.
A gas explosion, said the police.
But what were the odds it wasn't an accident?
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