Read Online The Devils of D-Day by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Masterton
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tank. I would far rather that you left it alone.’
‘I know that, father. But I don’t think we can.’
He was waiting for me at the front door of his house,
dressed in his wide black hat and black button-up boots, his cape as severe and
dark as a raven. His housekeeper stood behind him and frowned at me
disapprovingly, as if I was particularly selfish to take an old man out on an
afternoon so cold and bleak; probably forgetting that it was colder inside his
house than it was out. I helped him to climb into the front passenger seat, and
smiled at the housekeeper as I walked around the car, but all she did was scowl
at me from under her grubby lace cap, and slam the door.
As we drove off across -the slushy grey cobbles of the
priest’s front courtyard, Father Anton said: ‘Antoinette is what you probably
call a fusspot. She believes she has divine instructions to make me wear my woollen underwear.’
‘Well, I’m sure God cares about your underwear as much as He
cares about anything else,’ I told him, turning on the windshield wipers.
‘My friend,’ replied Father Anton, regarding me solemnly
with his watery eyes, ‘God will take care of the spirit and leave the underwear
to look after itself.’
It took us about ten minutes to drive the back way around
the village to the Passerelle’s farm. The trees all
around us were bare, and clotted with rooks’ nests; and the fields were already
hazy and white with snow. I beeped the Citroen’s horn as we circled around the
farmyard, and Madeleine came out of the door in a camel-hair duffel-coat,
carrying an electric torch and an oily canvas bag full of tools.
I climbed out and helped her stow one kit away in the back
of the car. She said: ‘I got everything. The crowbars, the
hammers. Everything you told me.’
‘That’s good. What did your father say?’
‘He isn’t so happy. But he says if we must do it, then we
must. He’s like everyone else. They would like to see the tank opened, but they
are too frightened to do it themselves.’
I glanced at Father Anton, sitting patiently in his seat. ‘I
think that’s how the good father feels about it. He’s been dying to tackle this
demon for years. It’s a priest’s job, after all. It just took a little
coaxing.’
As I opened the door to let Madeleine into the back of the
car, I heard Eloise calling from the kitchen. She came out into the dull
afternoon, holding her black skirts up above the mud, and she was waving
something in her hand.
‘Monsieur’ . You must take this!’
She came nearer, and saw Father Anton sitting in the car,
and nodded her head respectfully. ‘Good day, father.’
Father Anton raised a hand in courteous greeting.
Eloise came up close to me and whispered: ‘Monsieur, you
must take this. Father Anton may not approve, so don’t let him see it. But it
will help you against the creatures from hell.’
Into my hand, she pressed the same ring of hair that had
been tied around the model cathedral in Jacques Passerelle’s parlour . I held it up, and said, ‘What is it? I don’t
understand.’
Eloise glanced at Father Anton apprehensively, but the old
priest wasn’t looking our way. ‘It is the hair of a firstborn child who was
sacrificed to Moloch centuries ago, when devils plagued the people of Rouen. It
will show the monsters that you have already paid your respects to them.’
I said, ‘I really don’t think...’
Eloise clutched my hands in her own bony fingers. ‘It
doesn’t matter what you think, monsieur .
Just take it.’
I slipped the ring of hair into my coat pocket, and climbed
into the car without saying anything else. Eloise watched me through the
snow-streaked window as I started up the motor, and turned the car around. She
was still standing on her own in the wintry farmyard as we drove out of the
gates and splashed our way through the melting slush en route to Pont D’Ouilly itself, and the tank.
Twisted into the hedgerow, the tank was lightly
‘I know that, father. But I don’t think we can.’
He was waiting for me at the front door of his house,
dressed in his wide black hat and black button-up boots, his cape as severe and
dark as a raven. His housekeeper stood behind him and frowned at me
disapprovingly, as if I was particularly selfish to take an old man out on an
afternoon so cold and bleak; probably forgetting that it was colder inside his
house than it was out. I helped him to climb into the front passenger seat, and
smiled at the housekeeper as I walked around the car, but all she did was scowl
at me from under her grubby lace cap, and slam the door.
As we drove off across -the slushy grey cobbles of the
priest’s front courtyard, Father Anton said: ‘Antoinette is what you probably
call a fusspot. She believes she has divine instructions to make me wear my woollen underwear.’
‘Well, I’m sure God cares about your underwear as much as He
cares about anything else,’ I told him, turning on the windshield wipers.
‘My friend,’ replied Father Anton, regarding me solemnly
with his watery eyes, ‘God will take care of the spirit and leave the underwear
to look after itself.’
It took us about ten minutes to drive the back way around
the village to the Passerelle’s farm. The trees all
around us were bare, and clotted with rooks’ nests; and the fields were already
hazy and white with snow. I beeped the Citroen’s horn as we circled around the
farmyard, and Madeleine came out of the door in a camel-hair duffel-coat,
carrying an electric torch and an oily canvas bag full of tools.
I climbed out and helped her stow one kit away in the back
of the car. She said: ‘I got everything. The crowbars, the
hammers. Everything you told me.’
‘That’s good. What did your father say?’
‘He isn’t so happy. But he says if we must do it, then we
must. He’s like everyone else. They would like to see the tank opened, but they
are too frightened to do it themselves.’
I glanced at Father Anton, sitting patiently in his seat. ‘I
think that’s how the good father feels about it. He’s been dying to tackle this
demon for years. It’s a priest’s job, after all. It just took a little
coaxing.’
As I opened the door to let Madeleine into the back of the
car, I heard Eloise calling from the kitchen. She came out into the dull
afternoon, holding her black skirts up above the mud, and she was waving
something in her hand.
‘Monsieur’ . You must take this!’
She came nearer, and saw Father Anton sitting in the car,
and nodded her head respectfully. ‘Good day, father.’
Father Anton raised a hand in courteous greeting.
Eloise came up close to me and whispered: ‘Monsieur, you
must take this. Father Anton may not approve, so don’t let him see it. But it
will help you against the creatures from hell.’
Into my hand, she pressed the same ring of hair that had
been tied around the model cathedral in Jacques Passerelle’s parlour . I held it up, and said, ‘What is it? I don’t
understand.’
Eloise glanced at Father Anton apprehensively, but the old
priest wasn’t looking our way. ‘It is the hair of a firstborn child who was
sacrificed to Moloch centuries ago, when devils plagued the people of Rouen. It
will show the monsters that you have already paid your respects to them.’
I said, ‘I really don’t think...’
Eloise clutched my hands in her own bony fingers. ‘It
doesn’t matter what you think, monsieur .
Just take it.’
I slipped the ring of hair into my coat pocket, and climbed
into the car without saying anything else. Eloise watched me through the
snow-streaked window as I started up the motor, and turned the car around. She
was still standing on her own in the wintry farmyard as we drove out of the
gates and splashed our way through the melting slush en route to Pont D’Ouilly itself, and the tank.
Twisted into the hedgerow, the tank was lightly
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