Helter Skelter

by Des Sheridan

  ‘Well, this bit is certainly real,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘Why make us wait though?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been wondering about that too. There is an anxious tone to the note. My guess is the man is scared. We have collided with his world unexpectedly. Maybe he needs time to think. The point of the note is to keep us here.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘All I saw was his back, a pale linen suit and a brown hat moving fast down the street, disappearing into the crowd.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘So now we wait and tomorrow we relax, thank God! My feet are killing me. They are begging for a day off!’

  He rose out of the chair.

  ‘Come, on let’s go home. I need a shower to get rid of all this dust. And you look a right state too!’

  ‘Thanks!’ retorted Tara, laughing for the first time in what seemed like ages.

  Chapter 50

  Dorking, England, 13 October 2014

  James lunged forwards at the Leader with all his energy. The elderly historian saw one of the other men fall back in astonishment and took heart from it. Unfortunately the other thug – the one with the hard face – stepped forward and his right fist hit the James full in the chest. The historian fell hard on the red tiled floor, crying out in agony as his brittle leg bones impacted on the hard substrate. The Leader of the gang approached him.

  ‘You know, Mr Gascoyne-Cribb, or may I call you James? Yes, I think I will call you James. That would be much more intimate and I do want us to be friends. But you really must understand that I am a man in a hurry and you are wasting my time. How are Arabella and Richard these days, by the way?’

  He had picked up a family photo and was looking at it.

  ‘Still missing their mother I expect? Such a long, slow death I hear. Poor Clarissa, it must have been so hard on you. And little Ariadne, what age is she now? Three years old? Never mind! We have so little control over what happens to us and life is cruel. Is it not? No? NO? TELL ME! NO? NO?’

  The man was bellowing now, towering over James, as he lay winded on the floor. James felt old and weak and completely baffled by these thugs. How could they know these things? Private things, precious things. The Leader let his shouts die in the air then, bending his knees, he crouched beside James and spoke very quietly.

  ‘Now, James, let’s cut out the histrionics. Get up, sit down and fucking listen. Make no more mistakes. I can destroy you and your fucking family and I will if I have to. So fast, you won’t know what’s hit you.’ He snapped his fingers but then his tone softened. ‘So let’s not go there, eh? Now get up’.

  He held out his arm and James, realising he was beaten, took it and let the man help him up into a Windsor chair. James was terrified by the Leader’s ability to switch instantly to this calm, befriending persona. It made him all the more alarming as the man’s demeanour was at this point almost priestly, albeit none the less deadly. What must be going through this madman’s brain, James wondered? In addition to coping with the intense pain shooting through his groin, and the ache in his right thigh bone, James was trying desperately to comprehend the violent whirlwind which had overtaken his home. He was not used to being told what to do, nor was he used to being struck. All his life certain assets had enabled him to keep the coarser world at bay or, better still, assert himself within it. These assets included privilege of birth, the private schools he had attended and the favour bestowed by an Oxbridge education. Later in life they numbered an intellectual prowess to outsmart others, the possession of private means and social skills to navigate the Establishment like a fish in a very familiar tank.

  But today was completely different. All his assets counted for nothing. These people cut though all that, made up their own rules and imposed them on the world. He thought of when he and Clarissa had gone to see A Clockwork Orange all those years ago. They were like that he realised. The Leader and his lumpen followers were like Alex and his droogs. But the insight, which was typically apt and relevant, offered him no solace. Instead fear began to creep through his being and he began to shake as he recalled that there was no redemption for Alex’s victims. Evil simply triumphed.

  Chapter 51

  Santiago de Compostela, Spain, 13 October 2014

  Leandro found it hard to follow his normal routine because his nerves were in turmoil. But he knew that he must if he were to avoid arousing the suspicions of his watcher. His first activity on rising at five a.m. was however far from customary and was conducted in private. A privilege of living in the ground floor flat of the apartment block was possession of a basement. Cup of coffee in hand, he descended into the cellar and, using a step ladder, retrieved the object from the top shelf where it was hidden behind tins of half-used paint, old mats and associated paint rollers and brushes.

  Out too came the cloths and polishes that his father had left him. Regret overwhelmed Leandro. Remorse for his long departed father, for the religion that he had long since abandoned and for the marriage to Inez that had never really worked. Then anger flared within him for settling for so little in life and next towards the man who was following him, whom he was sure was here to kill him.

  He sat down on a crate to master his feelings and slowly his thoughts started to become more focused. The bottom line was that he had to get rid of his stalker but how? Sipping his drink he mulled over his options. He couldn’t just shake his pursuer off. The man would undoubtedly have accomplices to help him if Leandro tried to flee. Murder would be the simplest option and he should kill the watcher as soon as possible, before the man could identify him and alert his associates. But Leandro was no trained assassin and the likelihood was that the man was artful in violence and could easily outsmart him. No, it was more likely that he himself would end up dead. Pondering these options it seemed to Leandro that each was as impractical as the next and he could see only one likely outcome - that his plight was hopeless.

  Shaking off despondency he set about the task that had brought him down to the cellar in the first place. He unfolded the cloths and extracted the metal object for the first time in twenty five years. The Triskell was a triangular piece of metal, with hinges that suggested it was part of a larger piece. Polishing it with care he saw the intricate designs etched on it and the jewels carefully set in gold casting. He had always known it must be valuable but he had been far too superstitious to consider selling it. Briefly he wondered if he could sell it to the man, but something told Leandro that the watcher had not come here to trade. As he pondered, he was polishing all the while and the Triskell was responding well to his exertions. It seemed almost to glow and warm to his touch. Joy, the likes of which he had not experienced in decades, filled his heart and he fell to his knees. The prayers of his childhood rolled off his tongue as though he had never ceased saying them. He prayed for forgiveness of his sins and implored the Holy Spirit to come to his aid that very day, to save his life!

  No sooner had he said the words then he knew that he must go to Mass immediately and receive the sacraments. Returning the Triskell speedily to its hiding place, he hurriedly left home and, forcing himself to walk at a nonchalant pace, made his way on foot downhill to the priest’s house.

  Chapter 52

  Sedan, France, 2 September 1870

  ‘Wake up mon capitaine, it is morning!

  Anton Juste, aide de camp to Capitaine Henri Bihan-Malmanche, Duc d’Arz, gently shook the blanket covering his master’s sleeping form. Henri stirred slowly, turning in his camp bed as he came to. The coarse army-issue blanket scratched the stubble on his chin, reminding him that he was not safe in bed with his courtasine in Rennes. Daylight was filtering through the air vents of the army tent and he realised it must be past six in the morning. His mind quickly recalled yesterday’s rout and dreadful losses and he silently prayed that they would have better luck today. The previous evening their commander, Marshall Patrice MacMahon, who had been wounded in the day’s fighting, announced that the Army of
Chalons would stop and recoup its energies at Sedan.

  A booming sound rumbled through the morning air, distant enough to be ignored, but not that far distant. Anton’s voice hissed in his ear, ‘Prussian canon’. Henri was unclear if the remark was intended as a statement or a question, but he had no doubt his aide de camp was right. Thus far in this four-week-long war opinion was bitterly divided on most issues but on two matters all concurred. The first was that the French chassepot breech-loading rifle, with its brass-hilted bayonet, had proved its superiority over the dreyse needle rifles. It felled vast numbers of Prussians. The second, aired grimly, was that the Prussian Krupp shells were deadly and had accounted for most French casualties. Over 7,000 men during the Battle of Gravelotte alone two weeks back.

  Spurred by that thought, Henri sprang up from the bed and began to dress. Anton rushed to his aid in putting on the accoutrements of military garb. Minutes later, Henri stepped out into the encampment, which had been set up in a glade in the forest, and he felt the morning chill graze his cheek and the dew-damp grass lick his boots. He strode towards a group of officers already gathered in discussion around a campfire, where water for coffee was being boiled in a kettle. As he approached, a tall man turned and acknowledged him. Henri recognised General Auguste Ducrot.

  ‘Ah, Henri. Good morning. I was just informing your colleagues here that the Emperor has relieved Marshal MacMahon of his duties due to his shrapnel wound. As you know, the plan was to hold our ground here in Sedan, but the situation is deteriorating rapidly. It seems the Prussians have crept closer to us overnight. We must not be encircled. Therefore I am ordering a tactical withdrawal to protect our freedom of manoeuvre. So I want you to break camp and get the men moving westward. Pass the word on.’

  With a curt nod Ducrot dismissed his officers and returned to his tent. Henri felt relieved at the news. MacMahon was a brave leader, with a proud record as a hero of the Crimea, but he had dithered in recent days and Henri admired Ducrot’s decisiveness. What’s more, his reasoning made sense, unlike many of the high command’s decisions in recent times. The French declaration of war in July had been precipitate and the subsequent mobilisation shambolic. Instead of France invading Germany they were now being hammered on French soil. Morale amongst the rank and file was very shaky. Everyone knew that Napoleon III was making the key military decisions personally although he was no soldier and, like many others, Henri felt it was high time he passed command over to those that were. Worse still it was apparent to the officer corps that, from the first skirmish at Wissembourg, their commanders had failed to support each other in battle. And then there was the appalling slaughter in the confusion of yesterday’s fighting.

  Putting aside these insubordinate thoughts, Henri attended to his men. The next hour passed rapidly as the unit of cavalry packed their belongings and attended to their horses and equipment. Having satisfied himself that all was in order, Henri was about to give his troop the order for breakfast, when four mounted men galloped suddenly into the clearing. They reined in their horses forcefully and the creatures skidded to a halt, nostrils flaring and funnelling streams of hot breath into the cold morning air.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ The inquiry was harshly barked by one of the horsemen, an elderly man with a flushed face. General Ducrot rushed forward to greet the new comer.

  ‘General, Marshal MacMahon is incapacitated with a leg wound. I am readying the men to move towards the west.’

  General de Wimpffen pulled the reins of his steed this way and that in ill-disguised irritation.

  ‘Of course I know that! The Emperor has appointed me as commander in his stead. But I will have no retreat! Hold your ground, General; the honour of France is at stake!’

  Ducrot remained cool and collected.

  ‘I assure you that nothing holds a higher place in my heart, General, but a tactical move to outflank the enemy is surely wise. If we stay here we may be surrounded and....’

  ‘Rubbish! Do not challenge me sir! Stand down your troops at once and obey your orders. Or you will face the consequences!’

  Ducrot’s mouth twisted in anger, furious at being dressed down in front of his men, but he curtly bowed his head in a nod of acceptance.

  ‘Stand down men, we remain here until further orders,’ he called out.

  Wimpffen, satisfied at this result, turned about and headed off rapidly in the direction of La Moncelle.

  Henri’s mouth opened, about to speak, but Ducrot caught his glance and shook his head sideways.

  ‘Not now, Henri. We are in the chamber pot and about to be shat upon, but hold your tongue.’

  Anton felt unexpectedly world-weary and realised that yet more carnage was inevitable before the morning was out. He had been in the army five years, mainly in Algeria, but until this moment he had not expected to face death for reasons of pure folly. Like many he had expected a French expedition into Alsace to be followed by a diplomatic solution. Now the Germans were hunting them like rats on their own land. It all felt of a sudden very different and personal and he was gripped by a deep foreboding that he would not survive the day.

  Chapter 53

  Santiago de Compostela, Spain, 13 October 2014

  The young prelate looked surprised to be faced with an agitated-looking man on his doorstep. Leandro blurted out, in a hoarse whisper, a desperate request for immediate Confession. The priest hurriedly invited Leandro inside, presumably sensing his urgent need, or perhaps wanting to get him off the street before any commotion was noticed. Leandro realised that he probably wasn’t making much sense and that his agitation might frighten the man.

  A few minutes later, on his knees, Leandro wasn’t terribly clear what exactly he was confessing to and it all came out in a confused torrent. But the priest was kind and reassuring and, hand on Leandro’s shoulder, eventually absolved him of his sins. The relief Leandro experienced was tangible and he seized the priest’s hand in gratitude. The priest shook his head.

  ‘Please, please, it is not me – it is God who forgives you. I am but his servant. But come, you need to calm down. Eat with me.’

  Leandro followed the young cleric and sat down in the kitchen to share the breakfast of bacon, frittata and tomatoes. He ignored the dubious glances that the housekeeper ferociously rained down upon him.

  Afterwards, Leandro accompanied the priest to Mass in the great rococo Church like the one he had attended with his parents all those years ago. The building, with its huge rounded pillars, grime-obscured portraits of imploring saints and dazzling gilt altarpieces with winged cherubs, felt very familiar. But Leandro was at a loss what to do during the service for things had changed greatly since he was a boy. It was now in Spanish with only a few words in Latin. The congregation exchanged handshakes of peace, and at the Communion people also drank the Eucharistic blood from a chalice. What really took him by surprise, however, was the homily the priest delivered. It might have been written specifically with him in mind.

  ‘Tonight in nearby Noia, the feast of San Juan Touron will be celebrated. I for one will be going for I cannot resist the sound of our Galician pipes, the dancing and the great food that will follow. And if I can persuade someone else to drive maybe a glass or two of wine!’

  A titter of laughter rippled through the congregation.

  ‘So I’ll see you there! But seriously, let us recall the story of our local saint, the hero of this event. Legend tells us that Juan Touron was an innocent man unjustly sentenced to hang for a murder that he did not commit. As they took him to the gallows, he saw a processional crowd approach. It was the infamous Night Ones, the Santa Compana, and he fell to his knees calling on the Virgin to save him from the hellish grasp of the Santa. Seconds before the Night Ones, rapidly advancing, could reach him and tear him apart, he was struck dead on the spot and his soul was saved, going straight up to Heaven!’

  ‘Now, my dear people, reflect upon what San Juan did. Faced with a terrible fate he called on the Virgin! Oh, but I hea
r you say, this is just an old fable and has no relevance to us today. But I wonder. Let us ask ourselves a question. Do we, as we face life’s daily struggles, just muddle on through by ourselves? Or do we remember Juan and accept that we, who are weak and flawed and in a fix, can always put our problems into the hands of He who is all powerful? My friends, call upon the Virgin Mary to intercede with the Lord and He will send down the Holy Spirit to help you. Move forward in faith! Let the Good Lord take the strain, for wherever we go and no matter how difficult the situation, He will be there too if we invite him to fall into step with us.’

  Move forward in faith and the Holy Spirit will transform the situation! The words spun around Leandro’s head as he emerged into the streaming morning sunlight, for they had triggered another memory. The words of his father telling him of the ancient oath of the Triskell protectors - Perge in Fide! Forward in faith! Leandro felt like a man much restored. And with a possible solution to his dilemma, for he remembered clearly now his father’s tale of his encounter with the Santa Compaña. He saw his father standing there as vividly as though it were yesterday and Tadeo’s words came echoing down the decades.

  ‘Lallio first sons are born with the gift of Seeing and that is why I saw the apparition, the Night Ones, when others didn’t. But there was no mistaking it, a band of people, their heads shrouded, chanting and walking as one like a swarm of ants, relentlessly moving on, uphill to the castros! Vague fluid forms, partly enshrouded in the mist but there as sure as I stand before you now! You too, will be a seer one day, Leandro, trust me! Just imagine! A ghostly procession of the dead, forced to walk at night in endless penance for their sins. They look for other sinners to join them, and...’