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The call came when night turned into dawn.
“Special Air Police,” Algy answered, regretfully rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Lacey speaking.”
“They’re dead!” A man on the other end of the line bellowed, driving any remaining thoughts of sleep from Algy’s mind.
“Who’s-”
“My sheep! They killed my sheep!”
“Pardon?”
“The aliens! They slaughtered my sheep!”
And that was how Algy earned himself a five hour long trip through the Welsh countryside. Raymond hadn’t been happy to send the remaining two members of the Special Air Police on a hunt for supposed aliens, but there wasn’t much any of them could do about it.
While there had never been a proven encounter with aliens, the British government had made it a point these past years to take every chance of a supernatural threat seriously. There had been a few documented occurrences of ‘superhuman individuals’ - as the government called these people - in the years during and since the wars. Algy mostly remembered them as old tales, changing ever so slightly depending on who told them: soldiers surviving deadly odds, pilots disappearing midflight, gory murders being committed without a single piece of evidence being left behind. And those stories would have stayed tales, if it hadn’t been for Alexey Gorev, a Soviet whistleblower, who released government papers documenting the existence of such people. And the Soviets' plans of using them as weapons.
And even though those documents didn't mention aliens even once, the Special Air Police ended up being granted a whole new field of operations because of them. ‘Extraterrestrial activities’, which mostly consisted of members of their team wasting their time flying across the country to investigate fictitious alien sightings.
Algy let out a sigh. No matter how miserable it was to spend his morning and noon crammed into a struggling Ford Anglia alongside an equally moody Biggles, it still trumped sweating his bum off in some swamp in eastern Bangladesh like the rest of the team. Though the rainfall must be about the same, he thought grimly. The late October weather was so bad, in fact, that they had willingly chosen to travel by car. And as if to prove them right, the conditions had taken a turn for the worse as they entered Wales, though once they reached their destination it thankfully let up a bit. Driving past a small village, they made their way up to the farm where their wake up call had come from.
As far as Algy could tell, there weren’t any aliens in sight, there was, however, a mightily impressive cornfield. They must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, as there wasn’t a wide enough road to drive down towards the farmhouse.
“Nothing to it,” Biggles shrugged. “We will have to hike down.”
So they parked their maltreated Anglia on the side of the road and carefully marched down a small dirt path next to the crops. The smallest of the stalks reached half a foot above their heads.
“There aren’t many cornfields to be seen in Wales anymore,” Biggles said, eyes fixed on the slippery trail before them “that being said, this one is positively gigantic.”
“Thought so myself,” Algy replied with a false cheer, trying not to cringe at the squelching sound his shoe made when he finally managed to pull it out of a particularly muddy spot.
“That looks to be the drive up to the farmhouse,” Biggles said, eventually. Though the joy only lasted Algy a few seconds.
“It seems we are not the only ones investigating,” he said with a frown.
There were two Land Rovers in the driveway. One, sporting brown stains of rust and dirt, most likely belonged to the farmer. The second one, however, was clean as could be in this weather, its tinted windows reflecting the little existing sunlight. And surely enough, just as they had reached the cars a dry voice greeted them.
“If it isn’t the Special Air Police. Weren’t there enough fields to land one of your aeroplanes?”
They should have somebody take another look at their telephone lines, Algy thought, clearly there were bugs listening in on them.
“Von Stalhein," Biggles replied, his mouth twitching into what Algy hoped wasn’t a smile.
“So the Soviets suspect something paranormal, I take it?” Algy cut in, heading off anything more Biggles might have wanted to say. He was in no mood to endure a chit-chat with the enemy.
Von Stalhein shrugged.
“I am simply a tourist. Enjoying the beautiful sights and fine weather your lovely empire has to offer.”
“Right. Dead farm animals are a famously popular tourist attraction, after all,” Algy replied.
“Have you had a look at them already?” Biggles suddenly interrupted their ensuing spat. Von Stalhein scowled, but he did give an answer.
“A glimpse at most,” he said, and then, surprisingly, in a lower tone “The farmer doesn’t take well to Germans.”
Before they could ask what exactly he had meant by that, a burly, middle aged man stalked over to them.
“Are you the police?” he asked in a booming voice Algy recognised immediately.
“Yes, sir. We are the Special Air Police. You called because of your sheep?” Biggles, too, caught on immediately.
The man came to a stop in front of them.
“Yes. Flint’s the name. I’ve been waiting for you, lads.” He stuck out his hand. Biggles shook it. “That queer fellow, loitering around, tried to dupe me earlier. Tried to get a look at the sheep, but I can smell a Hun from miles away. Used to off them in droves back in the first war. Maybe you chaps can deal with him after, what?”
The farmer barked out a laugh and slapped an unamused Biggles on the shoulder. As they were led over to the barn, Algy threw a quick glance behind him, but von Stalhein had already slipped away.
The farmer kept up his commentary while unlocking the barn doors.
“It’s not usually locked up. That way the sheep can come and go as they please.”
“Is this where you found them?” Biggles asked.
The lock clicked and the farmer swung open the doors. Algy could already smell the stench of animal faeces and blood.
“No,” Mr. Flint turned back to face them. “They were out in the grasslands. Used to have a guard dog, Ronny, but he died some weeks back. Still haven’t replaced him.”
Biggles and Algy exchanged a look.
“We spotted a village earlier. Could it have been one of the locals?” Algy asked.
The farmer shook his head.
“The local brats just mess about in the field now and then. Nothing like this.”
...
Back when he was a child, Algy had entertained the thought of becoming a veterinarian once. That dream hadn’t lasted long, however. When his family’s pet cat, Millicent, had been mauled by a rabid fox, young Algy had to face the reality of his weak stomach. Granted, he had been only six years old back then. Still, the following aspiration of becoming a pilot had stuck instead.
Unfortunately, you didn’t have to be a veterinarian to determine that Mr. Flint’s sheep were indeed dead.
“I take it, this one used to have eyes? Originally?” Biggles finally broke the silence.
“Yes!” the farmer replied “Of course it had eyes! What sort of farm do you think I run?”
Algy continued to squint at the sheep. The question wasn’t too outrageous. Whatever had removed the eyes had done so cleanly. There was hardly any blood. The second sheep, however, was a different story.
“This looks like a clean cut. Very precise,” Algy said.
Its bloodied belly spouted a long incision, spanning from front to hind legs. Though this one at least had kept its eyes.
“Looked a lot messier when I called. Blood and innards everywhere. The storm washed away most of it though.” Mr. Flint shrugged.
“Did this one have any missing organs as well?” Biggles asked.
The farmer threw him a startled look.
“There was, actually. Heart’s missing,” he said. “How’d you know?”
Biggles gave him a weak smile.
“Just a lucky guess.”
Once they had left the farmer and made their way back to the dirt path, they found von Stalhein had returned. There he stood, leaning against his car, a cigarette smouldering in its holder. The ash was growing long, though he didn’t pay it any mind. He was apparently too busy frowning at the cornfield.
“What’s wrong?” Biggles inquired before Algy could pull him along to their car.
Von Stalhein’s eyes snapped to them. His frown instantly twisted into a smirk. The contrast of the two expressions was so stark, it made Algy wonder just how much of von Stalhein’s reactions were put on for effect.
“Why, Bigglesworth, are you worried about me?” von Stalhein taunted.
Biggles didn’t rise to it.
“You are clearly puzzling something out, von Stalhein. How about we work together this time? We tell you what we know about the sheep, you tell us what has captured your attention regarding this case.”
Before Algy could do so much as take a breath to complain, Biggles threw him a cautioning look.
Von Stalhein’s smirk slipped a little.
“I didn’t know you valued my thoughts this highly, Bigglesworth,” he said.
“I do. You’re a very intelligent man - current career choices excluded - and from what we have just seen, this case might prove to be a challenge.”
Biggles’ candour seemed to not only have given Algy pause, but von Stalhein as well, who had given up on pretence and was now studying Biggles’ face as if it held Britain’s greatest state secrets. Even though it didn’t, von Stalhein must have found something worthwhile.
“Alright,” he relented, “go ahead.”
And to Algy’s growing horror, Biggles did so in great detail. He proceeded to not only truthfully recount their viewing of the dead sheep, but also the additional information the farmer had given them and even his own thoughts on the matter. Algy could only trust that Biggles knew what he was doing.
Von Stalhein listened to this in silence. Then, he nodded.
“Fine,” he gestured at the cornfield, losing some of the perilously long ash at the top of his cigarette “you might want to take a closer look at the crops.”
Algy groaned.
“We didn’t just share our complete intel,” he threw a pointed look at Biggles for good measure “to solve some bloody riddle.”
Von Stalhein gave him a patronising smile.
“This isn’t hard, Lacey. All you have to do is climb onto the car and look at the field.”
Now, von Stalhein didn’t seem to be a man for practical jokes. But the thought of the German clambering up onto the hood of his car to peek at corn made Algy consider the thought that this might be some sort of petty revenge. Maybe once they were standing on the thing he would knock them off with his walking stick. While Algy tried not to snort at that image, Biggles was already following their enemy’s orders.
“Some of the crops are flattened down,” he said, perched onto the car “Are those patterns?”
He looked excitedly to von Stalhein, then Algy.
“We will have to fly over it to be sure. What a shame we didn’t bring a plane.” Biggles said, actually looking disappointed at the thought.
Von Stalhein threw Algy a quick, unreadable look. Then he said to Biggles:
“There is a small hangar some distance to the north. It looks to be privately owned. I would suspect it belongs to someone from the village, maybe they will lend it to you.”
...
They had driven past the village on their way to the farm. It lay roughly seven miles to the east, nestled comfortably in a valley surrounded by gently sloping hills and far reaching grassland. Many of its trees stood naked, the rest dearly holding on to their yellowed leaves. The houses were squatting amongst them, built wide and low, mostly made of sturdy brick. According to Mr. Flint, there were around 80 inhabitants.
The atmosphere was decidedly eerie. It was early afternoon, but there were no children running around, no people chatting, the only sign of life was a dog barking away in one of the yards. Von Stalhein had refused to join them, saying he had some things to take care of. A circumstance that both pleased and unsettled Algy at the same time. Keep your enemies closer and all that.
The families of the first few homes they tried didn’t open their doors. Some even drew their curtains shut as they walked past. Algy did his best to suppress his growing unease.
It was only by the fifth house that a lady cracked open her door. By a stroke of luck, that Algy was reluctant to trust, she turned out to be the pilot’s wife.
“My husband isn’t here today. He’s staying in Liverpool right now, earning some extra money,” she smiled sweetly at them through the gap. “Village jobs don’t tend to pay very well.”
Algy trusted that smile even less.
“Did he go there by plane?” Biggles asked, doing his best to match her sugary expression. Algy fought hard to stop himself from jabbing his elbow into his friend’s ribs.
“Oh heavens no! Thankfully he left that old tin can in its shed. The weather was brewing up a storm yesterday.”
Biggles nodded empathetically.
“Yes, of course. Flying can be such a dangerous sport. Would you mind, perhaps, if we borrow the old tin can for a quick fly around the area?”
...
The “old tin can” appeared to be a well-cared for Avro Baby from the early 20s. Upon seeing that it was a single seater, they decided that while Biggles would take a fly over the crops - he won a dubious coin flip for the pleasure - Algy would continue their reconnaissance on the ground. As it was already noticeably past noon at that point, he decided to let his stomach lead the way.
There was only one dining place in the whole village. An old but cared for tavern, equipped with a large dining area, and all sorts of taxidermied wild life. Strangely, Algy was their only guest.
“Hello there, young fellow! You must be one of the policemen that came to investigate Mr. Flint’s sheep?” a plump woman said, hurrying over to him with some cutlery held in her hand.
Algy put on a polite smile. It seemed despite its desolateness, news travelled fast in this village.
“I’m part of the Special Air Police, actually. We now investigate claims of extraterrestrial incidences as well,” he said, trying his best to sound official.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Flint is quite a peculiar man,” she laughed, though Algy worried for the cutlery clenched in her tightening hand. “He believes in all sorts of things. Sees paranormal forces everywhere. I think he’s just lonely, really.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that the village seems a bit… subdued,” Algy pressed on.
The woman’s smile faltered. She sighed.
“It is. It wasn’t always this way. Really, only since -”
“Enid, darling! Why didn’t you say we had a guest?” A man barged into the dining room. He entered by the same door as the woman, probably the kitchen, Algy guessed. It was clear that he had lost his chance at an honest answer now. The woman’s smile was fixed back on her face.
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, honey! This is Mr. …?”
“Lacey,” Algy said.
“Right. Mr. Lacey. He is one of the police officers investigating Mr. Flint’s poor sheep,” she said.
“Special Air Police. Nice to meet you, sir,” Algy said, putting out his hand.
The man took it. His grip was firm.
“And you. My name is Gavin Conway, and I take it you have already met my wife, Enid,” he said, gesturing to her.
As if taking his cue, she chimed in again.
“I was just about to take Mr. Lacey’s order. What would you like, sir?”
Their earlier conversation was undoubtedly over, so Algy ordered one beer each for both him and Biggles and some venison just for himself. Biggles would have to order his own food when he inevitably joined him here. The food arrived just as he was thinking of how he could get more information out of Mrs. Conway. It wasn’t her or her husband who brought it, however. Instead a girl of maybe sixteen years of age stood smiling in front of him.
She placed his meal on the table and stuck out her hand.
“My name is Morgan. I’m the owners’ daughter. You are investigating the dead sheep?”
Algy took her hand. It was cold.
“I am.”
Her bright blue eyes locked onto his. A small shudder ran down Algy’s spine.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Lacey, may God’s good will be with you,” she said.
And then she turned around and left.
Algy was just finishing his second drink, when Biggles walked through the door. There was no trace of the earlier excitement left on his face. He let himself fall into the chair across from Algy.
“It seems von Stalhein was onto something,” he said while rummaging around his trouser pockets. Finally, he fished a pen out of his pocket and filched Algy’s unused paper napkin. Before he could complain, however, he had it handed back to him already. On top of it was a drawing of circles. There was a big one in the middle, surrounded by a thin ring. Four smaller circles situated outside of it on each cardinal point. All perfectly spaced out and symmetrical.
“This seems hard to pull off without the help of a pilot. We will have to stay for the night. Tomorrow we can drive to Liverpool and interrogate the man,” Biggles said, taking a long gulp from his now stale beer.
...
The gravity of their situation only struck Algy once they asked Mr. Conway where the closest hotel was.
“Hotel? There is no such thing for miles! We used to accommodate guests here, back when there were merchants and such moving through. But we only have one guest room left and that one has already been taken,” Mr. Conway said.
Algy had a bad feeling about who that person might be. Still, he asked.
“Some German bloke. Who knows, maybe he’d be willing to share?” Mr. Conway laughed.
Algy managed to hold in his curses until after they had thanked the man.
“Maybe if we show him the drawings, share some more of our intel, von Stalhein would be willing to let us stay in his room?” Biggles mused hopefully.
“I don’t think you see the actual problem here,” Algy said. He buried his head in his hands. “Besides, I think we have already shared enough with him today. Or, for a lifetime, more like.”
Biggles sighed.
“I get what you mean. But I don’t think we have much of a choice here,” he said.
And although Algy would have rather stuck his head into the path of a moving airscrew than admit to it, Biggles was right. The sky was already growing dark and driving in such unpredictable weather on these back roads would be a risk. Somehow he doubted the farmer would let them stay the night in his barn. Especially if he hadn’t removed the dead sheep, yet. Algy shuddered at the thought.
“Fine,” he relented, “but you talk to him.”
...
Biggles did end up talking to von Stalhein. And either Algy underestimated his friend’s charm, or von Stalhein was planning something behind their backs, because he assented to their request willingly.
“We agreed to work together this time, didn’t we? I am simply upholding my end of the bargain,” the German had said, accepting Biggles’ offer with a thin lipped smile.
It was too soon then, that Algy found himself faced with the prospect of sleeping in the same room as their enemy. Said room was fairly small, a wardrobe and an unproportionally large bed taking up most of its space. There was no question about von Stalhein sleeping in the bed, not only was it rightfully his room, but making an injured man sleep on the floor also didn’t sit right with Algy. Even if that man was von Stalhein. Besides, that way he couldn’t sneak out of the room without having to step over at least one of them.
“I will sleep in the bed with von Stalhein,” Biggles offered as soon as they were on their own, taking on the tone of someone selflessly marching to their death, ” the floor hardly fits the both of us standing up and that way if he makes a move, I will know about it.”
“And get stabbed in your sleep for your efforts?” Algy tried to keep his voice level.
“Von Stalhein might make unwise decisions about the company he keeps, but he would never sink to such lows as to stab a man in the back while he is defenceless,” Biggles had the gall to look appalled at the thought.
While Algy failed to formulate an answer to that claim, Biggles took his chance and continued.
“You know, if it calms your conscience you can repay me by doing the paperwork for this case when this is all over,” he grinned.
Algy snorted.
“Alright, Skipper, let’s not get too excited here. You may sleep in the enemy’s bed if you wish, but I certainly won’t be the one to pay for that fun!”
And that was how Algy ended up lying stiffly on the floor, torn between wanting to stay awake and ready should von Stalhein try anything, and wishing to be unconscious so he wouldn’t have to deal with this situation anymore. And the latter must have triumphed at some point, for he was awoken by the vague memory of a loud noise echoing in his ears.
“Wha-?”
“Shh,” Biggles’ voice to his right hushed him softly. Sitting up, Algy could just make out his and von Stalhein’s figures perched tensely on the bed. All three of them stayed like that in silence, holding their breath, until a few seconds later there followed a succession of dull bangs. Immediately they sprang into action.
By the time Biggles and Algy had grabbed their guns from under their pillows, von Stalhein was already on his feet, his hand on the doorknob.
“Wait,” Biggles whispered. He sidled up next to von Stalhein and flipped on the light switch. The room stayed shrouded in darkness.
Algy grabbed Biggles’ torch from the bedside table and handed it to him.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They snuck down toward the dining room carefully. Biggles kept the torch turned off for most of the way, the shine of the waxing moon falling through the windows being enough to see by. When they arrived at the stairs, von Stalhein put his hand on Biggles’ arm, motioning for himself to go first. Biggles nodded.
Keeping to the right edge of the stairs, von Stalhein silently guided them to the ground level, his limp nearly unnoticeable. As he reached the second to last stair, he stepped over it. Algy and Biggles followed his lead. As soon as their feet his the ground floor, Biggles switched back to the front. Algy took up the rear, checking for anyone who might try to sneak up on them. They winded their way through the empty dining area like that, the reflective eyes of the taxidermied animals watching them. Suddenly, Biggles stopped. Algy could just make out his finger pressed to his lips, telling them to be quiet and listen. And truly, at the very edge of his hearing, he could make them out. Whispers. They were coming from the kitchen. Algy’s heart was racing.
Once they stood ready by the door, Biggles promptly threw it open, turning on the torch to blind the intruders. And there, squinting into the light, were the startled faces of Gavin and Morgan Conway. Tear streaks glinted on the girl’s face.
“What’s going on?” Biggles asked.
The girl pointed silently down the cellar stairs. Algy kept a watchful eye on her as Biggles slowly moved closer, taking care to keep a good distance between him and the stairway. He shone the torchlight down and froze.
“We- we heard a loud bang and when I woke up to an empty bed, I thought maybe- The door was open. She used to sleepwalk when she was pregnant with Morgan, but she hadn’t done it in such a long time! How could I know she would-?” Mr. Conway sobbed.
Reluctantly, Algy joined Biggles to look down into the cellar. Mrs. Conway’s body lay at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck was twisted at an awkward angle, the whites of her sightless eyes reflecting the beam of the torchlight. They were widened in shock, her mouth hanging open. Death had frozen her face in perpetual terror.
...
Once dawn broke, Biggles had made a plan.
“I will take von Stalhein with me to Liverpool to interrogate the pilot,” he told Algy, somewhat apologetically, “we can’t trust him enough to leave him on his own and you have already familiarised yourself to the family. Maybe you can get some more information out of them. Be careful, though. They may have been Mrs. Conway’s family, but right now they are also our only suspects.”
Before Biggles left, they had promised each other to take care. And Algy had fully planned on keeping that promise. However, Mr. Conway had left a few minutes earlier, informing them that he had to notify friends and family of Enid's death and make preparations for the ceremony. He had seemed mournful but collected. A fact that didn’t do much to calm Algy’s suspicions about the man. Biggles was right, after all, he had as good a motive for killing his wife as anyone. Algy recalled the way Mrs. Conway had stopped talking at the arrival of her husband the day before.
The sight of her dead body had haunted the little sleep he could get for the rest of the night. And even now that he was awake, it was nagging at his mind. It was horrifying, yes, a tragedy undoubtedly so, but also… There was something off about it. It was ridiculous, but Algy simply couldn’t imagine a person to keep their eyes and mouth wide open while crashing down a flight of stairs. Especially if they had been asleep moments before. He could only imagine that - such as it was with pilots - the human instinct would result in a flinch. A reflexive protection of the body’s eyes and mouth. During the first war he remembered having to work hard to suppress that reaction when any number of debris, ammunition or even whole planes were hurtling his way. No. There was little doubt in his mind that Mrs. Conway had died before the fall. Her body was still down in the cellar. There would have to be extra bruising, maybe scratches, some sign of a fight. Algy could feel regret settling in the second he made the choice to take a look at it.
In a reflection of the night before, he carefully snuck down the stairs, avoiding the second to last one. Again, he halted at the kitchen door, listening for any noise. This time, there was none. When he reached the door to the cellar, he gave himself one last chance to back out. Predictably, he didn’t take it.
The door’s hinges groaned when he eased it open. Already he could feel cold sweat break out on his forehead. But no husband came barging into the kitchen, no hands grabbed at him from behind. So he pinned the door open with the wedge lying beside it and walked down into the darkness. The electricity still didn’t work, the problem proving to be more complicated than a flip of the circuit breaker. So he got out his torch. At this time, the cellar felt even colder than the freezing weather outside. He half expected to see his breath cloud in front of him. In the middle of the room stood a sturdy wooden table. On it lay Mrs. Conway, covered by a cloth, but the outline of her mangled body was still visible. Rigour mortis had frozen her broken limbs in a grotesque shape. Algy shuddered. He couldn’t bring himself to lift the cloth just yet. Instead, he let his torch light glide through the rest of the room. It looked as if it was used for storage mostly. There were some wine bottles resting on stands, unused furniture pushed against the back wall and a few boxes stacked on top of it. There was also a big refrigerator humming in the far corner. He examined the boxes first. The few that were open seemed to be empty. When he gave a little shake to one of the lighter, closed ones he could hear a metallic sound, however. The furniture beneath them, on closer inspection, didn’t seem unused at all. It was free from dust or spiderwebs and the heavy stone table at the bottom even smelled of cleaning detergent. The thing vaguely reminded Algy of Sunday service. And then it hit him.
Slowly, he turned to the fridge. As if in a trance, he felt himself be pulled towards it. He could feel the cold emanating from its surface. The door was heavy, suctioned to the frame. With a quick twist, he wrenched it open. And nearly let it fall closed in shock. There at the very front of the fridge, two eyes stared back at him.
There was a surprised yelp stuck in his throat. He couldn’t let it out. For a fact, he couldn’t get any air in either. His lungs screamed for it, but it felt like the air around him had turned into a solid mass, steadily pressing in on him. He tried to move, to scream, to blink. But nothing worked. Black spots were dancing in his vision, joining the tears of panic and pain in his eyes. Just before everything turned black, he felt a hand grip his shoulder.
...
The first thought Algy had upon waking was that he was itchy. The second thought was God no. His mouth was forced shut. Judging by the smell and the painful little tugs when he moved, he suspected duct tape. His eyes, too, were covered by something, the tight knot at the back of his head intensifying his budding headache. When he tried to tentatively move his limbs, he found that while he could do so to an extent, they too were bound. Still, a shaky sense of relief flooded through him. The memory of solid air pressing in on him was enough to make his heart speed up again.
Taking deep and slow breaths through his nose, he tried to make sense of this situation. He was lying somewhere, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Now that he was concentrating more on his surroundings he could place the itch as hay poking his skin and the smell of animal faeces and blood as the farmer’s sheep barn. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even hear some faint munching sounds and hooves stomping around in the hay. So he had apparently been kidnapped. Most likely by the murderer of both Mrs. Conway and their two initial victims. There was no doubt that the eyes staring at him from the fridge had belonged to one of the dead sheep. Thinking back to the stone altar he had found in the cellar made a shudder run down his spine.
Suddenly the bang of a door echoed through the air. The few sheep who were keeping him company scurried away.
“What about this one? Do we kill him?” A thin voice asked. It belonged to a man.
“No. She wants him there for the ceremony. Have him watch,” a second voice answered. Mr. Conway.
“Whatever the angel says,” the first voice laughed. Mr. Conway didn’t join in.
Their voices were moving toward Algy. He tried to lay as still as possible, but he could feel his muscles tense in anticipation.
“Don’t even try fighting us, Mr. Lacey,” Mr. Conway's voice said, right next to his ear.
Algy didn’t plan on it, but when he could feel their hands touching his arms and legs, instinct kicked in. He kicked and flailed as hard as possible until the hands retreated. There was a curse from Mr. Conway and suddenly a hard object struck Algy on the head.
Dazedly, he was aware of being dragged out of the barn, then carried. There were rustling noises and something warm trickling into his ear. Soon the rustling turned into a buzzing. He pictured flies swarming around his body. Only once there was a rough hand pulling off his blindfold, did he realise that he was already seated on the ground. The shock of seeing the full moon illuminate the night sky cleared his head a little. He found himself sitting in the cornfield. The big, middle circle of Biggles’ drawing came to his mind. It was now filled with people. There seemed to be at least forty of them.
“The time has come,” said a voice to Algy’s left. Morgan Conway stood behind the stone altar, clothed in a white dress. Algy shivered in sympathy. The buzzing sound stopped instantly. The crowd had ceased their murmuring.
“You are now witnessing the birth of a godly angel,” she proclaimed. Her hands reached for something on the table. When Algy saw what it was, he was glad they had taped his mouth shut.
“A sheep’s eyes, innocent and without prejudice,” she continued on. And then one after the other she popped them in her mouth. The noises of her chewing on them was nothing at all like Algy would have imagined. And although it did nothing to reduce the noise, he shut his eyes tightly.
Once the sounds had finished, there came a little pause. And Algy wished he didn’t know what lay upon it.
“A sheep’s heart, pure and full of nature as God created it,” she said, and Algy steeled himself for what was to come.
What followed were the most tortuous minutes of his life. For a while the wet, gagging sounds of the girl trying to force down the raw meat were the only things he could hear. He had to grit his jaw against his own nausea, taking short, shallow inhales through his nose. Soon he could hear the rest of the congregation become nervous. Finally, as the girl forced down the last piece of the meat, the tense muttering of the crowd ceased again.
“The feast has concluded!” Mr. Conway bellowed over the quieting voices “Now! It is time for God’s angel to make its first judgement.”
Again, there were hands grabbing at him. Shoving and tugging and dragging his body until he was in the middle of their circle. At the click of a safety Algy’s eyes snapped open. He was staring directly into the barrel of a gun.
“We shall give him a chance at redemption. If he forsakes it, he shall be my first proper sacrifice,” Morgan said. “Look me in the eyes, little sheep.”
Taking a deep breath, Algy followed her order. As he met her eyes, his stomach fell. Her mouth and hands were smeared with blood, her gaze wild with excitement.
“This is the choice you face. Return to your colleague, tell him you have found peace with us here. Join us forever. Or, reject an angel. And face the consequences,” she said.
Algy’s heart was racing. The jeers of the crowd sounded far away. He tried to imagine making that first choice: Getting up from the cold ground. Cleaning off the blood and sweat from his skin. Looking his closest friend in the eye and telling him, with a smile on his face, that he is at peace and will not be returning with him to their home in Mount Street. The girl’s face blurred in front of his eyes. There was no chance Biggles would believe a word of what he was saying. Algy wouldn't even be able to get out his first words before breaking down.
He just hoped they wouldn’t take his eyes. He shook his head.
Morgan looked taken aback.
“So be it,” she said, finally.
She lifted her arm, palm facing him. Though he was expecting it this time, the panic still gripped him as the air around him suddenly thickened. It was as if a solid mass was pushing in on him. It became hard to breathe. He didn’t want her face to be the last thing he saw. But he wasn’t a coward. A soldier faces his end proudly. His eyes met hers.
And then it was over. As quickly as it had come, the pressure dissipated. Algy gulped in the cold air.
“What are you doing? Kill him already!” The man with the gun screamed, his thin voice cracking with impatience.
Again, the girl pointed her palm toward Algy. But this time the pressure barely even built before it disappeared. She roared in frustration.
“Will you be quiet! Flint won’t ignore this for much longer. Let me do it,” the man pushed her aside. The crops around them rustled in the wind.
“No!” Morgan shouted, trying to tug the much larger man away. “This has to be done properly, or the ritual won’t work!”
The man pushed her aside again. She fell to the ground. Algy heard the click of a safety echo in the field.
“No!” The girl yelled.
The man lifted his gun. Despite himself, Algy shut his eyes.
“Stop!”
A shot rang out, a wave of pressure followed. Algy was thrown back, he felt his head bounce off the frozen ground. For a while there was just darkness and a sharp ringing in his ears. He couldn’t move. A jolt of panic made him snap his eyes open. There were stars above him. Slowly, the ringing gave way to an explosion of noise. There was shouting, the trampling of feet and more gunshots.
Suddenly, a hand on his face brought him back to reality.
“Algy! Are you okay?” A concerned face entered his vision.
“Biggles,” Algy choked on the name.
“Don’t move. Let me check that you’re okay first,” Biggles’ face disappeared, but his hands quickly replaced him. Gently, they checked over his body, then head. By the time Biggles pulled him into a hug, Algy was already crying.
“God, Algy. Are you alright? What did they do to you?”
Algy wished he could answer that question, but all he could do was cling onto his friend, trying to get his breathing back under control. But it took a while for him to calm down. Around them, the remaining villagers were being secured by policemen.
“We went back to the pilot’s wife before leaving,” Biggles explained softly. “We kept asking her about her husband, where he was staying, what sort of job he was doing. The vagueness of her answers already made us suspicious. And when we came back to the tavern and Mr. Conway said you had left for Liverpool, that you had wanted to tell us something, I knew you would have at least left a note. So I had Erich stay and look for you, while I drove on to Liverpool and had the local police contact Raymond. He arranged for the chaps to come along. I’m sorry we arrived so late.”
Algy tried to take this information in, but his eyes were busy searching the ground. When they fixed on a figure, lying only a few feet from them, Biggles followed his gaze.
“That’s the pilot. Erich shot him. Thank God for his good aim.”
Algy gave a wet snort. But when he craned his neck, trying to see past Biggles, his amusement died instantly.
“Algy, don’t-”
But his eyes had already found her, her dress drenched in red. Her arm lay outstretched, palm open towards them, her dead eyes reflecting the stars.
Algy pressed his face into Biggles' shoulder and kept on breathing.