The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [135]
‘Marvellous!’ said a voice.
There were two figures by the entrance to the room. They were attired in evening wear and white silk mufflers and top hats. The glass of a monocle glittered above the spoiled grin of one of them. Even from forty feet distant, they smelled of cigars and brilliantine. And they stank of feral rot.
‘It’s Crowley,’ Seaton whispered. ‘And Fischer.’
‘Crowley and Fischer burn in Hell,’ Mason said. His voice was raw with scorn. He hawked and spat on the floor.
‘Golly,’ the Crowley apparition said. ‘You’re no fun.’
Mason spat again. He gripped the weapon across his chest.
The figures began to fade. They had receded from sight almost entirely when the Crowley apparition said, ‘You’ve angered Mr Greb. And Mr Greb will settle with you shortly.’
‘Why is it called Mr Greb?
‘Harry Greb,’ Seaton said. ‘A prizefighter Fischer’s manservant knew in the days when he worked for Al Capone.’
Mason nodded. He shone his torch at the floor. He held the beam poised over a section patched and paler than the rest. He took something from the pack on his back and opened it and handed it to Seaton. It was an entrenching tool. He nodded at the ground. ‘A layer of concrete over hardcore and then earth,’ he said. ‘Tough going, but it could be worse. I’ve scraped graves on battlefields from less hospitable ground.’
Seaton looked at his own soft, unaccustomed hands. And a voice that caused the skin on his head to itch and crawl icily called down all the way from the top of the stairs to reach them where they stood.
‘My name is Harry Greb. I licked Tunney. I licked Tunney good! And I’ll lick any man, alive or dead.’
There was a pause. ‘Are youse coming up to fight? Or am I coming down for youse?’
Mason handed the entrenching tool to Seaton. Seaton took it. Mason fingered the weapon around his neck. He was sweating, the breath coming shuddering out of him.
‘You can’t go up there.’
‘It’s coming down here, if I don’t,’ Mason said. He said it flatly. He was dealing with fact. ‘You have to recover the child’s remains and get them out of the house. You have to do as Lascalles said and bury the bones beyond the influence of this place.’ He nodded at the entrenching tool. He licked his lips and looked at the ceiling. The house was warming with the baleful threat of the thing above. In the basement, it was becoming harder to breath. ‘Now fucking dig, Seaton. Dig like your life depends upon it, which I very much suspect it does. You’re an Irishman, aren’t you? You’re a Mick. You’re a Paddy. So it shouldn’t be beyond you to dig a fucking hole.’ He grinned. He walked towards the entrance of the room. He was breathing hard, sweating, a sheen of fear on his face. He was clearly and mortally afraid. But he would go, because he was brave as well as frightened. His bravado was there to try to conceal the fear. But Seaton saw that the fear could do nothing at all to mask Nick Mason’s appalling courage. He would go. Of course he would go. This was what he did. This was who he was and had always been. He was a fighting man. And so he would fight and try his best to win.
In the doorway, he paused. ‘If I don’t make it, keep an eye on Sarah for me, Paul. Don’t get any ideas about her, though. So much as put a finger on her, and I swear to Christ I’ll fucking come back and haunt you myself.’ He turned.
‘Wait,’ Seaton said. ‘Wait. I know something about boxing. About its history.’
There was a thud above them. It was hard to tell how far.
‘Mate. There’s no time for this.’
‘The devil enjoys games, does he not?’
There was a mauling, capering sound from above.
‘It thinks it’s Harry Greb. And Greb was truly formidable. The first time they met, he slaughtered Gene Tunney. He was more than a match for Dempsey on every occasion they sparred together. In his entire career, he was only put down the once. But every time he climbed through the ropes, he took a secret into the ring with him.