Through a Glass Darkly
Page 41
It had taken Brody all day to write up the five pages of foolscap. So simple a tale, yet he could not adequately describe the sacrifice that had been made.
He was still dissatisfied when he found himself before a familiar door. He rang the bell pull and waited. From across the Cardinal Quad came shouts and laughter from those fellows of the old university, trapped in time as surely as the brothers of the venerable library. Yet another exception to God’s laws. Brody had seen so many that he wondered whether anything was truly forbidden.
‘Father Brody. How strange. I was not expecting you.’
The librarian was dressed in his usual black robes, but his hood was pulled back. Brody remembered the chaotic arrangement of bones in the face, the soft musicality of the voice, and the forceful sense of knowing that emanated from the man.
‘You have not returned to consult my books for a third time, I trust? If that is the case, I’m afraid I would insist upon you staying …’
‘No. I have here something you may wish to add to your collection. If your archivist could attach it to the Transmigration of Souls, I think it might be of use, should anyone need to consult that document in the future.’
Brody held out the pages of yellow paper.
‘Your contribution is most welcome, Father. It is a testament, too, is it not? An attempt to immortalise a great deed?’
Brody nodded. The librarian folded the papers and placed them beneath his robes.
‘A very interesting individual. Tortured, of course, as all interesting people are. I was glad to have met him … And the other?’
‘I cannot say. I pray he is gone.’
‘Your prayers matter little. Things are as they are.’
Brody said nothing. He turned his back on the library.
‘It may be of some comfort to you to know that he was successful,’ the librarian called. ‘And he was not alone when the end came.’
‘Our top story: the remains of missing ten-year-old, Stephen Lloyd, were found late last night at the home of Inspector Jack Trent, the man heading the investigation into the deaths of Stephen and eleven-year-old Oliver Godfrey. We pass over now to our correspondent at the scene …’
The picture switched to a journalist standing in front of a police cordon. In the background, there stood a uniformed officer guarding the door of Jack’s house.
‘Yes, Clive, I’m here at the home of the missing Inspector Jack Trent. Now, the police aren’t giving away much information relating to this startling new development. We heard from the DCI in charge earlier, Roger Jarski, who told us that, acting on information received from an anonymous caller, Mr Trent’s home was searched last night. Several items of clothing belonging to the missing children were discovered here, as well as a number of ghoulish trophies. Now, we know that the partial remains of Stephen Lloyd, who was reported missing a few days ago, were discovered in playing fields near Renton. It is possible that the torso of Stephen has been found inside the house behind me. This remarkable twist of events has left the local area in complete shock. People are asking how the police did not know that so seriously a disturbed mind was working amongst them. I have spoken to Dr Kent Fincher, an expert in cases of post-traumatic shock. He had this to say …’
‘Garret’s work,’ Brody said.
Dawn refilled his glass and gave herself a top-up. She joined him on the sofa.
‘He knew that Jack was Mendicant’s intended vessel,’ Brody continued, ‘and when Mendicant refused to share the secret he had promised, Garret took his revenge. Mendicant would have his new life, but it would be spent behind bars.’
‘And this is how Jack will be remembered?’ Dawn said, swilling back her whisky. ‘He saved my child. He suffered to save us, and this is his ending.’
‘No. It doesn’t end like this for him. There are no real endings, are there?’
A black and white photograph of Jack appeared on the screen. They were both quiet for a moment while the reporter leapt from one unfounded conclusion to the next.
‘How is Jamie?’
‘I don’t know. He woke earlier. I didn’t … I couldn’t talk to him.’
‘You must, for your sake and for his.’
The report ended.
‘In related news, the village of Crow Haven, south of the B136, was the sight of a freak storm last night. Over to a rather wet Jan Phipps.’
The reporter was on the ridge overlooking Crow Haven. The water had dropped several feet, but was still lapping at the upper windows of some of the houses.
‘In the early hours of this morning the small community of Crow Haven was the scene of some of the worst localised flooding on record. So far, meteorologists are confounded as to how a storm of the proportions needed to devastate this area could have been missed on satellite surveys. As you can see, all the homes in this little vale have been largely destroyed. Most of the residents of this close community did manage to escape unscathed. Unfortunately some did not survive. Among those missing, believed drowned, there are local farmer, James Rowbanks, Post Mistress, Estelle Gilchrist, parish priest, Father Christopher Garret and Mrs Anne Malahyde. Mrs Malahyde was the mother of Simon Malahyde, a young man who disappeared a week ago. Simon was the prime suspect in the murders of Stephen Lloyd and Oliver Godfrey. That line of inquiry, however, was pursued by Jack Trent, and so must now be regarded as a blind. The whereabouts of Simon Malahyde are still unknown …
‘I have here with me Mr Sandhurst from the local council. Mr Sandhurst, what can be done for this devastated community?’
Mr Sandhurst, a ruddy-faced councillor in his late fifties, exuded sympathy.
‘Well, we have arranged temporary accommodation for all residents. I’m afraid, as you have pointed out, it is unlikely that the current buildings will be allowed to remain standing. Health and safety, you know. We will be helping the people of Crow Haven in their arrangements with their insurers. But I am not optimistic that, from a financial point of view, rebuilding will commence here any time soon.’
‘And what of Redgrave Forest?’
‘Well, as you see, the area is completely destroyed. We …’
Dawn switched off the set. Brody looked into the shifting prism of the cut glass before finishing his drink.
‘Well, I’d best be off,’ he said.
‘Where will you go?’
‘I … humph,’ he heaved himself off the sofa. ‘I shall go abroad. There’s a village at the foot of the Andes I’ve been dreaming about. I was happy there once.’
She went with him to the corridor and opened the front door while he hauled on his coat. He fished in his pocket and brought out a string of rosary beads and a small crucifix.
‘Say goodbye to the boy for me,’ he said. ‘And give him these; just as a keepsake. I don’t think I shall need them anymore.’
He closed her hand over the gift and held her gaze.
‘Mourn him,’ he said. ‘He should be mourned.’
Before she could respond, he had closed the door behind him.
It was very late, but Jamie had not eaten all day. She went to the kitchen, took eggs from the fridge and cracked them into a bowl. They’d had omelettes with ham and cheese that night in the flat. When he had first met Jamie.
There was her father’s mug on the side, stained through with rings of tea. What had he seen in his last moments? What had Jack seen? And if, as she now believed, there were such things as ghosts, was Jack out there somewhere? Perhaps one day she would see him again. His face on steamed glass. In a mirror. Or in her dreams. That playground of the mind, in which terrible, wonderful things happen all the time.
Copyright
First published 2008.
Another Bloody Book.
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Bill Hussey 2008.
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