I Am Robert Langdon |4| The Friar
In February 2000 I emerged from my underground bunker, a converted passage tomb near The Hill of Tara, to discover that the world had not ended and the dreaded Y2K bug had failed to wipe out our species. I was relieved but lost. Months later I discovered a novel called Angels and Demons by Dan Brown and consumed it numerous times because the lead character, Robert Langdon, shares my name, Robert Langdon. It changed my life and gave me a purpose. I have followed Robert and Dan on their adventures ever since and have penned several stories featuring my hero, my companion, my teacher…Robert Langdon. These are my stories. I am Robert Langdon.
“Mithras!”
Langdon shouted after stubbing his toe on the door of his aqua blue Smeg refrigerator.
It had been a very long day and Langdon was fatigued. He’d spent his day poring over ancient manuscripts populated by weird and archaic knowledge and to say there were a bunch of mental symbols was putting it lightly. Just as he was leaving the Library of Ancient Manuscripts he was met at the door by Detective DePlant.
“Dr. Langdon?”
“Langdon by name, Langdon by nature.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. DePlant. To what do I owe the honour?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this but we’ve found Friar Morddon.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry…Robert.”
Langdon closed his eyes and forced out a tear. He felt the detective’s soft embrace.
“It’s ok, I’m ok Penelope.”
“The team are still at the scene, seems he’s been dead for a few weeks. His lodgings have been desecrated…with symbols.”
Langdon bolted upright even though he was already standing.
“Take me to him.”
Five minutes later they were speeding through the streets of Paris in DePlant’s Renault Saxo. Langdon snarled about the car’s lack of zip and DePlant let it slide because she knew he was just angry about the friar. The old friar who had taught Langdon everything he knew about deciphering ancient manuscripts.
They arrived at the crime scene fifteen minutes later and Langdon prepared himself mentally by whizzing through a couple of his favourite symbols in his mind’s eye, this always relaxed him.
DePlant walked in ahead of Langdon and cleared the scene.
“Robert?”
“Let’s symbolise.”
Langdon walked into the old apartment and was instantly struck by the stench of death. He’d smelled it so many times over the years but he could never get used to it. It was manky.
He examined the hall and living room, all seemed normal. Too normal.
“The bedroom, Robert.” Said Penelope.
Langdon stood in the open doorway. The scene before him was truly horrific. It took him some time to process it in its entire splendour. The friar had been dismembered, his limbs had been arranged above the bed in a giant swastika. His head had been peeled, the face stuck in the centre of the swastika and the skull was on the bed filled with genuine gak. The trunk of the friar’s body was at the foot of the bed, wrapped in tinsel and drenched in what was obviously human piss.
The remaining walls were covered in intricate symbols.
Langdon stood perfectly still, he was speechless. Detective DePlant began to call his name. Too late, thought Langdon. The symbols were so evil and archaic that Langdon knew he’d have to consult the most ancient grimoire known to mankind. He’d have to consult with…The Deuce.
“I need to consult…The Deuce.”
“The Deuce? But Robert, he’s been incarcerated in the Vatican catacombs for decades. Nobody gets in, nobody gets out. How are you going to do it?”
“I’m not sure Penelope.”
But as the words left his mouth a plan began to form within Langdon’s heavily and luxuriously haired head.
Robert Langdon is a neo-transcendentalist, a Sadhu of Samhain, an historic detective and a conspiracy factualist. He lives in Drogheda with his husband, wife and a dule of red eared slider turtles.
