by Sarah Rayne
‘Never mind who’s not there, what do we do?’
Declan looked wildly about him, then said, ‘We’ll go inside the tower. If we can barricade the door against them, they might calm down after a while. Or we might be able to reason with them. Because these are people we’ve known since childhood!’
They tumbled across the remaining few feet to the tower and half fell against the door, gasping with relief when the handle turned and the door opened. They slammed it against the torchlit procession, and leaned back against the blackened oak, trying to regain their breath.
Even after the fire, the stone walls were so thick that the sounds of the approaching villagers was shut off, but it was so dark they could barely see anything.
‘We’ll have to find something to barricade the door,’ said Colm.
‘There’s nothing. Everything’s burned to cinders.’
‘No, wait, there’s a few bits of furniture – there’s a chest over there, I think. Stay here – keep the door shut while I drag it over.’
Declan stayed where he was, holding the door’s iron latch in place. He could hear Colm dragging the chest from the wall, but he could not see him. He pressed his ear to the door’s surface, listening for sounds that the villagers had reached the top of the cliff path. Perhaps they were outside the door now. Or were they trying to find another way in? Was there another way in?
Here was Colm now. He must have got the chest across the room while Declan was listening for the villagers’ approach. He had come to stand next to Declan – he was actually standing very close. Declan half turned his head and it was then that Colm reached down and took hold of Declan’s hand. This was odd; it was not in the least like Colm. And Colm’s hand felt wrong – it was too small, almost shrunken, and the fingers were curling round Declan’s with a terrible intimacy . . .
In a voice that shook, Declan said, ‘Colm? Where are you?’
‘Over by the old fireplace, trying to get this press out from the wall. Why?’
Declan said, ‘Something’s standing next to me. And it’s grasping my hand.’ He recoiled, snatching his hand free and nursing it as if it had been bitten. Colm’s voice, still on the other side of the tower said, ‘Declan? What’s wrong?’
‘There’s something in here with us,’ said Declan, and as he spoke, the darkness slithered, and shadows reared up on the walls – grotesque shadows that might easily be figures on prancing horses, figures wielding spears, figures that wore crowns and mitres . . . There was the glint of crimson – like slanted eyes peering down from the walls, and Declan shrank back, flinging up a hand in instinctive defence. A face came swooping out of the darkness and peered down at him – a dreadful carved face, the red eyes slitted and malevolent, the lips stretched in a hungry smile.
At the top of his voice, he yelled, ‘Get thee gone from me, Satan!’ and there was a dry chuckle, like ancient, skinless bones being rubbed together.
Then the door burst open and the Kilglenn villagers erupted into the tower. Cold moonlight, eerily mingled with leaping torch flames, came jaggedly through the darkness. The shadows with their glinting red eyes vanished, and the villagers seized Colm and half-carried, half-dragged him out on to the cliff side.
But Declan saw that the crimson light shone from the eyes of the men and women he had known since he was born.
There was nothing either Declan or Colm could do.
The villagers thrust the torches in the ground, and held Colm down.
‘Murderer,’ they chanted. ‘Mesmer Murderer. We know who you are.’
‘Murderers have to be branded,’ cried several more. ‘The mark of Cain. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be now.’
‘Brand the murderer, brand him.’
‘Set the mark upon him.’
Branding irons, thought Declan, horror engulfing him. They’ve brought branding irons, and they’re heating them in the torch flames. The newspaper stories about the Mesmer Murderer with Colm’s photographs must have reached them – they know what he did. And they’re going to burn him. I’ve got to stop them, he thought, but as he started forward, two more of the men grabbed him and held him back.
‘See what we do to murderers,’ said one of them.
‘We’ll do it to you as well, if you try to stop us,’ said another.
Declan said, ‘You can’t do this. Please. You’re not sane – you’re being used – can’t you tell that! Can’t you feel it?’ He searched frantically for words. What had Colm said it felt like? ‘Something’s slid beneath your skin,’ cried Declan. ‘It’s clawed its way along your hands and fingers and into your brain . . . Can’t you feel that it has?’
But they threw him away from them, sending him sprawling on the wet ground, and turned back to Colm. Through the panic and fear, Declan had time to think that in the light of the flaring torches, these people bore no resemblance to the villagers he had known. He looked about him, frantically trying to see a way of saving Colm.
But it was already too late. The villagers of Kilglenn, filled with bloodlust, were holding down Colm’s arms and legs. The glowing branding irons – two of them – were raised into the night sky. Then they were brought down on to Colm’s face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
For Declan the worst part was not Colm screaming in agony; it was the dreadful stench of burning flesh – the stench they had both smelled on this hillside not very long ago.
A thin rain had started to fall, cooling the irons, and as the glow of their heat faded, the hatred and malevolence of the villagers seemed to fade. They stepped back from Colm, seeming unsure of themselves – almost seeming unaware of where they were. Some of the women started crying. In twos and threes, avoiding each others’ eyes, they made their way back down the cliff path.
Somehow Declan got Colm as far as the shack, partly carrying and partly dragging him. Colm was moaning and struggling, but once inside the cottage he seemed to become calmer. Declan laid him on the battered sofa, and faced, with horror and dismay, the task of tending to Colm’s burns. The branding irons had burned away almost the whole of one side of his face, searing into his cheekbone all down to the jaw.
‘Eyes both intact though,’ said Colm, in a thready voice. ‘At least I’ll see Death when he approaches.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ said Declan angrily.
‘Declan, they’ve burned half my face off! Why would I want to live?’
‘It’s not so very bad,’ said Declan. He was not sure how burns should be treated, but he tore strips from his shirt and soaked them in the cold rain, then laid them over the burned flesh. But Colm was still twisting and turning as if trying to escape the pain and Declan was dreadfully aware that Colm’s hands were icily cold. Could you actually die from the shock and pain of a bad burn? Please don’t let him die, he thought, and stood up with decision. ‘I’m going to get help from the village.’
‘No one will come.’
‘My mother would. My father, too.’ But even as he said it, Declan was wondering if he could ask it of them. Neither of his parents had been among the torchlit group, but they would not want to be seen by the villagers as aiding a killer. And how would they feel towards Declan himself, after he had run away without warning, leaving only a note?
In miserable indecision, he built up a fire in the shack’s little hearth, and drew a rug over Colm. In one of the cupboards he found half a bottle of whiskey, which he handed to Colm hoping it might dull the pain. Colm drank most of it, then relapsed into an uneasy sleep, and Declan sat on, wanting to get help, knowing there was no help to be had.
Shortly after midnight Colm seemed to rouse, and Declan sat up.
‘You’re feeling better?’ he said, but he could already see that Colm was much worse. His eyes were wild and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. The unmarked side of his face was taking on a waxen tinge and there was a pinched blue look to his lips. I can’t lose him, thought Declan, in anguish. Only I don’t know what to do.
I
n a weak voice, Colm said, ‘What were we saying about death, Declan?’
‘You’re not dying,’ said Declan again.
‘I am. And here’s the thing, Declan, I’m dying with all those sins on my soul. Mine and Romilly’s, and Nicholas Sheehan’s . . .’ He struggled into a semi-upright position and reached for Declan’s hands. The fingers, closing around Declan’s, were cold, but beneath the surface the bones seemed to be on fire. ‘Let’s remember Romilly aborted a child and Sheehan reneged on his vows,’ said Colm. ‘And let’s remember that I murdered five people in London . . .’
Declan said, ‘Will I get a priest?’ and Colm gave a half-laugh that turned into a scraping cough.
‘Father O’Brian? Oh sure, he’d break his neck to come all the way up here for a sinner like me.’
‘He would come,’ said Declan.
‘Declan, by the time you get to his house and bring him back out here, it’ll be too late. Oh God, it’s burning into my bones . . .’ He broke off, struggling against the pain. Then he said, in a quieter voice, ‘I don’t want to die like this – I don’t want to die at all. Life’s bloody unfair, isn’t it?’
‘You’ll get through it,’ said Declan valiantly.
‘But in case not . . . Declan, will you do one last thing for me?’
‘What?’ But a cold horror was creeping over Declan, because he already knew what Colm wanted.
‘You did it twice before. Once for the priest. Then for Romilly. Do it for me, now. The ritual – the sin-eating ritual.’
Declan stared at him, his mind in tumult. After what felt like a very long time, he said, ‘I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you? You did it for those others. Aren’t I your oldest friend?’
It would be impossible to say, ‘Yes, but you’re a murderer five times over.’ Instead Declan said, again, ‘I can’t.’
‘But you’d confess straight afterwards.’ Again the pain overwhelmed him, and he hunched over, gasping.
Declan thought, confess to murder? Five murders? Priests hearing confession were bound by absolute secrecy, but he could not believe a priest, hearing a confession of murder, would not find some way to invoke temporal justice. And who would believe Declan was confessing on behalf of a man who was himself dead?
He said, ‘Colm, let me try to get a priest to you . . .’
But Colm seemed not to hear. He said, ‘Declan, if I gave you something . . . Get my jacket – don’t argue, just do it.’ He waited until Declan passed him the jacket, and thrust his hand into the pocket.
‘What . . . ?’
‘The Title Deeds to Holly Lodge,’ said Colm. ‘You got them out of the house, remember? And that house is mine – it was left to me fairly and legally. But you take them and take the ownership of it. Find a way of getting your name on to the – I don’t know what it’s called – on to the ownership part of the Deeds.’
‘I’d never get away with it,’ said Declan, but something had tugged at his mind, saying, wouldn’t it be a marvellous thing to own a whole house . . .
‘Yes, listen. You’ll have to leave it a while – maybe as long as a year or even more. Then you turn up at a solicitor’s office, and give them some story. Say you met someone while you were travelling and he gave you the Deeds as he lay dying. That’s true enough, anyway,’ said Colm, bitterly.
‘But Flossie’s family—’
‘She didn’t have any,’ said Colm. He had fallen back on the sofa and his eyes were becoming distant. ‘I’m telling you, you’ll get away with it.’
Declan said, ‘Colm, even with this, I can’t do what you’re asking.’
‘I shan’t give up,’ said Colm, and broke off with a dreadful rasping cough. His hand, which Declan had taken again, seemed to be loosening. ‘I promise you, Declan Doyle, I shan’t give up.’
The present
He never did give up, thought Benedict, still seated in the soft dimness of the shack. He died here in this cottage, but he couldn’t be at peace. He believed he was the one who had taken the guilt of those other sins and he believed he needed someone to repeat the ritual to remove them. And to remove his own sins, thought Benedict. All those killings . . . It’s medieval and it’s impossible, but he believed it.
Declan wouldn’t do it . . . He wouldn’t repeat the ritual . . . Declan’s son wouldn’t do it, either, and nor would his grandson . . .
Benedict said, very firmly, ‘And nor will I.’
No . . . The word drifted through the desolation and the shadows, sadly accepting.
‘Did my great-grandfather bring the chess piece back to Holly Lodge all those years ago?’
He did. He couldn’t face destroying it. He got his name transferred to the Title Deeds and he went back to London. The chess piece went with him. You know the rest.
Aware of absurdity, Benedict said, ‘Can’t you – let go now?’
I don’t know. Aren’t I the ghost doomed to walk the night? The familiar irony was there.
Benedict said, ‘If I were to destroy the chessman? If I take it up to the watchtower and smash it? Would that – I don’t know the right expression – would it release you?’
There was a long silence, and for a moment he thought Colm had gone. Then, Let’s try, said Colm’s voice. Let’s try that now.
So they stood together in the burned-out watchtower, where a renegade priest had lived out a lonely existence in an attempt to contain an ancient evil, and where two boys had clung to a rock spur and listened to him die in screaming agony.
And, thought Benedict, where a set of figures that once haunted a castle library perished.
Except for one single piece, Benedict . . .
Benedict picked his way through the rubble and the charred debris. It was just possible to see the outline of the room that had once existed. There were even fragments of furniture that had survived the fire – he could see a small chest with a carved lid, several chairs, even a few strings of fabric that must have been curtains or rugs. The hearth was filled with grass and birds’ nests and the tiny skeletons of birds themselves, but above it still hung an oval mirror, the frame black with age, the surface so smeared it gave no light and no reflection.
Benedict took the chess figure from his pocket. He had the fleeting impression that it resisted him, but he took a deep breath, and flung it hard against the stone fireplace. It described an arc through the dimness, and there was a moment when it reflected eerily in the old mirror. The shadows stirred briefly, and for the space of two heartbeats he thought shapes formed on the stones – the silhouettes of prancing horses, marching warriors, imperious figures who wore crowns or mitres . . .
Then the illusion vanished, and there was a small splintering sound, like frost icicles cracking. He saw the chess figure fracture against the stones. Tiny glinting chips flew out – some caught the silvering moonlight. The small sounds died away and the shadows were quiescent again.
Benedict said, very softly, ‘Colm?’
But nothing moved within the ruined room and Benedict drew in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It’s all right, he thought. He’s gone. As he crossed to the door, something seemed to shiver within the tarnished mirror, and he turned, his heart skipping a beat. But there was nothing there, of course.
He went quickly down the hillside to his car.