The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [196]
‘Oh, Jesus motherfuckin’ Christ,’ says a deep, American voice, followed by one that’s unmistakably English:
‘I really don’t care for blasphemy, you pagan cunt.’
I rocket down the stairs and into the staff kitchen. Michael, blessed, lovely Michael, St Michael, scourge of dragons, is barring the way, his back to me. He’s cornered the American Druid who led the Ancient Dead protest at Equinox, holding him at bay with a baseball bat. Looks as if it wouldn’t take much to make him use it. Graham strolls in through the other door.
‘Police are on their w—Bloody hell, India.’
Michael risks a glance over his shoulder. ‘Nobody else upstairs, I hope?’ His tone isn’t entirely friendly. ‘What about the car?’
‘Heading for Swindon. Didn’t get the numberplate, I’m afraid–they’d smeared mud over it.’
The American smirks.
‘Take a look in the gallery, would you?’ says Michael. ‘The other chap was carrying something in a plastic bin-liner.’
‘I’ll go…’ But Michael’s face makes the words dry in my mouth.
‘I think we’d rather you stayed right here, India.’
‘No, hold on.’ My chest is so tight with panic I can hardly breathe. ‘You’ve got it wrong–I was upstairs looking at the Keiller archive…’
‘Hey, man,’ says the American, worried I might steal some of his glorious martyrdom. ‘Didn’ even know she was in the fuckin’ building.’
‘Nevertheless, India, I’d prefer you to wait with me for the police.’
Graham, avoiding my eyes and careful not to touch me, eases past into the gallery. His feet crunch on glass. The only sound in the kitchen is the American’s heavy breathing. There’s a look of fierce triumph on his face.
‘Well,’ says Graham, returning. ‘Good news or the bad?’
Michael closes his eyes, composes himself. ‘In whichever order.’
‘Bad news is that they’ve stolen a skull.’
The American’s lips have parted in a fierce grin. His teeth are perfect, glaringly white, a glimpse of fat red tongue curling between long gleaming canines. ‘Not stolen, my friend. Returning it to the ancestors…’
‘The good news,’ says Graham, his face utterly straight, ‘is that’s all they managed to grab, and it’s Charlie’s.’
The American’s brows knit, puzzled, as Michael and Graham explode into laughter.
‘So somebody’s busy conducting a Druid funeral for a plaster skull?’
Michael is opening cupboards, looking for a dustpan and brush to sweep up the glass on the gallery floor. Graham’s gone to look for plywood to tack over the window where the intruders climbed in. ‘Yep, that’s about it. Until they hear about their mistake on the news.’
Outside, the door of one of the police cars slams, and an engine starts up. As the car passes under the courtyard light, the back of the American Druid’s huge dreadlocked head is bracketed in the rear window between two smaller, helmeted ones. Bet those wolfish teeth aren’t on display now.
‘That’s how I could be sure you weren’t involved,’ adds Michael, producing a bin-liner from the back of the cupboard. ‘Hold that, will you, while I sweep? Anyone who works here would be aware Charlie’s skull is a cast. The real thing’s temporarily on loan for isotope analysis.’
‘Actually, I didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t you? Good grief, maybe it was an inside job after all’ He pats me on the shoulder, to show he’s joking. ‘Sorry for doubting you.’
‘Was my fault, though, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t turned off the alarm…’
‘They’d have got clean away. Frankly, this couldn’t have been a better result, apart from the mess. We caught one, and they made themselves look bloody silly. The broadsheets will love it–pity it’s too late for this morning’s papers.’ He crouches and starts brushing the glass into a glittering heap. ‘If you hadn’t been upstairs, the tenants in the Manor wouldn’t have phoned