by Des Sheridan
Not a word had been exchanged; there was no need. The woman picked up the envelope he had left on the side table. He had dictated the scenario over the phone to the madam and the escort had stuck perfectly to the script, like a well-trained circus animal, which was how he saw her. This was how Evrard liked intimate contact these days. Its sole purpose was to gratify him and he had no time for the complication of having to think about a partner’s needs. He was paying for a service and that was that. He paid particular attention to the choreography of it all. It excited him to exert such total control. He had a short written scenario which he would dictate to the madam over the phone and when he got bored he would change the script a little to add spice to the experience.
Organising his sex life this way had started a long time ago, after things had gone wrong with Stephanie. They had met and married in their late twenties. He was a high-flying young executive whose rise to lead his company had been stratospheric. Not bad going for a child orphan found in the ruins of Antwerp in nineteen-forty-four, he reminded himself. His parents had been killed as the Germans rained in V2 missiles on the city that the Allies had liberated to act as a key supply route in the invasion of Germany. Overnight, the bewildered six-year-old Edvard became a street kid, surviving for months as a member of a gang of orphans as they begged for food, stole and ran errands for the foreign troops. Finally he was rounded up and sent to an orphanage. Not that he talked much to anyone about that period; the memories were too awful. He remembered exactly what it was like to fight viciously with another child over a loaf of bread, to smell the stench of dead bodies as you tried to fall asleep and to feel terrified because you no longer belonged to anyone; that nobody cared if you lived or died. Above all, the sense of dread that comes from living on the edge of disaster, day after day after day.
His big break came in the mid-fifties. Those were the days, he recalled, when the Coal and Steel Treaty fuelled the engine of industrial rebirth and economic prosperity. As an apprentice in a chemical works he had worked hard at pleasing his bosses and rose rapidly through the ranks to become manager within two years. Money now brought him security and access to all that he needed and being a sensible young man, he made a virtue of looking forward and not back. He first met Stephanie when she accompanied her father, a rich Belgian aristocrat, on a visit to the factory. As he escorted them around he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The sexual attraction was instant, electric and reciprocated. And it united them, for a while at least. Long enough to overcome the objections of her family and tie the knot. She devoted herself to promoting his career and creating what people would these days call his brand. It was she who proposed the double-barrelled name so that plain-sounding Edvard Looz became the more impressive Evrard de Waverin-Looz. The first three years, during which Pascal was born, were happy enough. But the dream had begun to fray and looking back Evrard could trace his gradual disenchantment. Stephanie was at heart flighty and self-indulgent, craving novelty for its own sake and expecting always to get her own way. Soon she got bored of building her husband’s career and wanted new thrills. And she seemed determined to spoil the child. Evrard resented this and began to devise small ways of thwarting her. Small ways that had grown bigger over time: ways that he could use to control her behaviour. A day came when Stephanie asked him to help her younger teenage sister secure a hush-hush abortion. He refused, because he could and felt like exercising control, and the girl committed suicide two days later. Stephanie never recovered from the loss and even Evrard was shocked by what had happened. He tried to make amends but Stephanie had changed. She was implacable and never forgave him. He knew that her gradual descent into alcoholism and drug addiction stemmed from that time. Initially he was sympathetic in a vague sort of way, but after a time he ceased to care and they began to lead essentially separate lives. At heart he couldn’t bear the caprice and disorder that increasingly dictated how she lived. To him it was contemptible.
Standing in the roof garden watching the sunset, Evrard reflected how long ago and far away it all seemed now. It was almost two decades since Stephanie’s death and, lighting up a cheroot, he reflected how much more he preferred his life the way it was now, well ordered and planned. Not that he was a control freak; in fact in his business life he was remarkably pragmatic and open to innovation. But on home ground he craved order and felt entitled to require it of his family as well. A ghost of the frightened and vulnerable six-year-old still lurked somewhere deep in his psyche and would never again let chaos dominate his life. That was why in his family he insisted on calling the shots. Stephanie had resisted and paid the price of her wilfulness. In the end when she was dead he was glad. It removed a tiresome and unnecessary complication.
He glanced at his watch and was pleased. The encounter with the escort had taken twenty-seven minutes of the thirty allocated in his diary under the heading ‘personal needs’. Evrard smiled, taking pride in being such a highly organised man. If only he could organise his wayward son Pascal as effectively as he did his tarts, he thought. He laughed at the thought.
Chapter 32
Tipperary, Ireland, 19 June 1649
After they had sampled the strangely-flavoured banana bread that Cornelius had supplied for their amusement, Donovan Lally was the first to speak and bring them back to the serious matter at hand.
‘My Lord Bishop,’ he ventured, ‘how does the gift of Seeing the future fit in with God’s plan for the world? Does not the Holy Book condemn sorcery? How do we know the Triskell is not the Devil’s, better destroyed today?’
‘A good question, Donovan. The gift of revelation can be imprecise – that is well established, I may tell you - with the seer experiencing a dreamlike vision whose meaning is open to various interpretations. For this reason some have questioned the value of the Seeing, viewing it as mere witchcraft. But I, like my forbears, see it thus. The Seeing and the Triskell are like anything on God’s earth. We have a choice. We can use them for good or use them for ill. Down through the centuries the experience of those who have guarded and employed the Triskell has been that it is a Godly thing. It offers a means of accessing a deeper understanding of God’s Revelation. To destroy the Triskell without seeking to understand it better would be sinful, a casting aside of the wisdom of the ancients and an act of pure folly. By that logic ought we not immediately to destroy the great Book of Revelation because many of its passages frustrate simple interpretation? I think not!’
Silence told the Archbishop that his listeners were satisfied. He turned to the Breton, ‘And you Guion, have you no questions for me?’
Guion looked serious. ‘Your Eminence, I do indeed, a simple question. If the Good Lord has entrusted the Triskell to us, why do we not use its powers to gain insight now? Why hide it away till some undefined point in the future?’
Cornelius pondered a while before replying.
‘The temptation to use the Triskell for venal purposes is very great. I have felt that temptation many a day myself. We could readily seek to find out the outcome of the current strife besetting Hibernia, for instance. But you have heard me tell how carefully and respectfully the Druids used it. Like the lost Ark of the Covenant. I believe the Triskell is a very sacred object. To misuse it for paltry purposes would be to court the wrath and vengeance of Almighty God. There will come a time and a place and a seer who can help us master its use, but now is not that moment. Pause and consider the rapine, pillage and the killing that engulf us. Men are being burned alive for believing one or other creed of the Christian faith, as Recusant and Protestant vie to reduce God’s revelation to this or that formulation of words. How dare they presume! Does anyone here really think that the Good Lord, our Divine Saviour, died on the Cross for slaughter like this?’
His voice had risen to a crescendo and, whatever their opinion, no one in the room dared contradict him.
‘Hold this truth close to your hearts, my friends,’ Cornelius resumed his voice now a loud whisper. ‘The darkness engulfing these isla
nds, which pitches Christian against Christian, ushers in atrocity and butchery as its handmaidens. This is not the true message of Jesus the Nazarene. To expose the Triskell to these troubled times would bring calamity. No! Our duty is clear - we must hide the Triskell away until a more auspicious aeon. And as to when that might be? As the Good Lord said, it is not our right to know the time or the hour.’
At that moment the sun, as if prompted, emerged from behind the clouds and shafts of sunlight fell through the mullioned windows and across the table, in seeming affirmation of the Archbishop’s words. William, who was standing by the window, looking out at the garden, smiled at the serendipity and then voiced the question all were edging towards.
‘There is much wisdom in what you say, My Lord, and all of us here are committed to preserving the truth of the Celtic way. It is plain that knowledge of the old times is at risk of being obliterated within a few short years, the way these merciless wars are going. For that reason alone I share your conviction that the Triskell must be protected. But let us avoid walking into a fog. What evidence is there that this contrivance, however ancient it may be, actually works? Is it not more likely that its value is merely symbolic, helping the mind of the seer focus on the visioning ritual?’
A silence fell upon the gathering. After what seemed and eternity Cornelius spoke at last, looking up at William but directing his words to them all.
‘My dear friends, I am so grateful for your patience in journeying with me this far on trust. But doubting Thomas wishes to see the place where the nails pierced through, as it were.’
He smiled and inclined his head towards Howard.
‘And, in view of the gravity of the undertaking that I seek from you and your descendants, I must accept it as a fair request. You have neither seen the Triskell nor observed it at work. I thought it might perhaps come to this, which is why I set our meeting at this time. In two days it will be the twenty-first day of June, the occasion of the summer solstice. This, as you may know, is the day when the sun confounds all expectations by standing still, and then reversing its direction across the heavens in its rising and setting. It is the longest day in the year and an auspicious one. You shall see the Triskell at work, gentlemen, and, by the Communion of Saints, I tell you your doubts will cease and the Fear of God will pervade your souls in its stead! So be it. You will have the knowledge and in return bear the burden!’
Chapter 33
Sligo, Ireland, 16 September 2014
From the moment the tomb was discovered, life at Rosnaree changed and events soon acquired a new and uncontrollable momentum. Tara’s father, always an efficient master of ceremonies, took immediate control. Once back at the house he plied the rescuers with drinks and set Mrs Ryan to creating her speciality doorstopper sandwiches of carved local ham, lettuce, onion and homemade pickle. The assembled company devoured these as they discussed the extraordinary discovery and what it might mean. There was great excitement and it reminded Tara of Christmas gatherings when her mother was still alive.
Brian, however, soon slipped away quietly to his study to telephone Patrick Deargal, the local antiquarian based at Sligo Museum, whom he invited to join a second descent into the tomb the next day. The following morning was overcast but dry and Patrick arrived early accompanied by two assistants from the museum. Together with Brian and Shay they entered the tomb by the same route as previously. Patrick’s response left Brian in no doubt about the significance of the discovery. As soon as they returned to the house, Brian rang Andrew Fitzgibbon, the Director of the National Museum in Dublin. Andrew was an old acquaintance from the Dublin cocktail party circuit that Brian and Catherine used to frequent when they lived in the city. Patrick was by this point in a high state of excitement, and jabbered down the phone to the Director that the site was on a par with Newgrange and would make the area world famous. Retrieving the phone, Brian asked Andrew how best to deal with the situation and the Director replied without hesitation.
‘Keep quiet about all this and give me an hour or two. I will talk to my people and get back to you. This will require careful handling.’
Chapter 34
Brussels, Belgium, 16 August 2014
Pascal entered his father’s spacious and beautifully appointed office and as expected found Evrard ensconced behind his enormous desk. He sat down immediately opposite him, thinking that a meeting with his father always reminded him of a summons to the headmaster’s study. Not that this especially bothered Pascal. He knew that his father liked to transpose his family relationship’s into a business setting because it put him in the power position. Evrard looked a bit leaner and older, thought Pascal, like an elderly tall stick insect, his long thin bony fingers playing with a metallic stress toy on the desk in front of him.
Pascal could not stand being in his father’s company for long but he was here to play along with his father’s game for a simple reason. Indeed, it was about the only thing the two of them saw eye to eye on. Evrard needed to bequeath his wealth and name to the next generation and Pascal wanted to inherit it.
‘Won’t you take your coat off? There is a lot of territory that we need to cover this morning.’
Instinctively Pascal felt the urge to challenge this. He couldn’t really help it; if his father said black he would opt for white. It was like the Hundred Years War, he thought, and it went way back in time to when he was a boy and they had disagreed over his mother. Pascal had raged inwardly at the sarcastic put-downs that Evrard had rained upon Stephanie as she had struggled with her drug dependencies. As a teenager he knew all too well how each clinically-observed criticism had cut her to the quick, because she would go over them endlessly with him afterwards, engulfing him in the emotional waterfall of her disintegrating life. The comments hurt her not simply because they were caustic but because they were often accurate and she knew it. Sometimes Pascal would spring to her defence and challenge his father but that only attracted Evrard’s barbs in upon himself.
‘Call yourself a man, do you? Look at you! You are pathetic! Justifying her self-destructive ways like a faithful lap dog! God, you are stupid as she is!’
Faced with verbal onslaughts such as this, the boy soon learnt not to reveal his emotions in front of his father if he could help it. But of course his father still wanted to know what the boy thought, so a cat-and-mouse game evolved and they would circle around each other. Pascal knew that today they would re-enact this repetitive tit for tat. He had his own interests to protect in this arena and knew that he must engage and play the game to his own advantage. So he smiled and rose, removing his coat before resuming his seat. Before his buttocks touched the cushion the second volley arrived.
‘And how is Kirsten? I thought she looked a bit pale the last time we met?
That was because I had just hurt her hard, thought Pascal, you inquisitive bastard and I wish I could do the same to you right now. The notion that he would discuss Kirsten’s wellbeing with his father was ludicrous. This from a man whose idea of responsible fatherhood was to arrive one evening, when Pascal was twelve, with a young hooker in tow and then insist they both had sex with her. He made Pascal watch first to see how it was done. Pascal had squirmed initially at the sight of his father with an erection but what followed soon gave him one himself. Then, when it was Pascal’s turn, his father had commenced a running critique of his son’s performance. Were it not for the fact that he had a strong ego and that his hormones were already on overdrive, it might well have put him off sex for ever, Pascal mused.
‘Yes, that’s right. It was a virus, nothing important. She is just fine. She sends her regards.’
Evrard smiled at this. Whether in disbelief regarding the infection or gratitude at Kirsten’s sentiment towards him, Pascal could not tell.
‘You know I really do appreciate you making more time for the business. It is important that you know what makes it tick. Perhaps you might even contribute more?’
Evrard was being nice, as he invariably was when Pasca
l was compliant. But there was a limit in Pascal’s mind. He was not about to become his father’s lackey.
‘Let’s just see how today goes, father. There is no reason to think I can complement your business genius.’
Evrard stared at him, presumably uncertain if this was a compliment or sarcasm. Although the tone of his father’s voice remained serene, Pascal saw his eyes harden.