by Sam Nash
Below me, guards were ushering visitors out through the main doors. How could I have been so stupid? Even if David understood my cryptic message, even if he knew exactly where to go, we could not set a date or time. Distress overwhelmed me. What if he had not been able to escape? Had hanging up on the Minister for Defence given rise to fatal retaliation?
I sagged to the floor, leaning my elbows on the plinth supporting the imposing statue and wept. My elbow caught against something light and beige, flicking it onto the floor. I opened an eyelid and blinked until I could make out the shape. A peanut shell rested at my knee. David was mad for monkey nuts. I picked it up, turning it between my fingers. Written on its bumpy surface in blue biro was a single word, Pip.
My son was in Paris. He had made it to the museum and left a marker for me. My tears continued to streak down my face, but this time from relief. Pocketing the monkey nut, I made my way to the exit, making a note of the opening times as I left.
I had the entire evening to smarten myself up, and get some rest. Crossing the river, I sauntered up the Champs-Élysées in the baking heat, with my jacket slung over my shoulder. Near to the Arc de Triomphe, I found a department store, where I was able to purchase a few essentials. It hadn’t occurred to me until then, how ridiculous I must have looked. Unshaven, in scuffed evening wear in a stifling shop buying toothpaste and pants. With my journal transferred to a new travel bag, along with my toiletries and new clothes, I dumped the dining suit in a street bin and looked out for a quiet hotel.
The first place I tried was full, but the receptionist was kind enough to direct me to a beautiful place, overlooking Victor Hugo Avenue. Settling into my small room on the top floor, I had a much-needed shower and shave and then switched on the television. When the news bulletin started, I recognised the military posturing of war ships in the Gulf and austere interviews with high ranking soldiers, and though I was unable to translate, the scenes related that no new developments in the crisis had occurred.
I dined on a huge steak with pepper sauce and dauphinoise potatoes and greens, but declined the suggested burgundy. I must keep a clear head, with both the Charities and Tawnie looking for me. Tourist areas are bound to attract their attention, and my route back to the Musée D’Orsay takes me through some of the most popular spots.
Sipping my after-dinner coffee, in a cordoned seating area outside the restaurant, I documented my recent travails in my journal. As I flicked through the pages, a spot of rain landed in the crease, wrinkling the paper under my gaze. Within moments, the waiters rushed outside carrying long hooked poles. Before the downpour could soak us, they pulled an awning over the diner’s heads. I smiled up at a bemused waiter as I used my sleeve to wipe the raindrops from my diary. He disappeared inside the restaurant and returned a couple of minutes later with a metallic bag. “To keep your book dry.” He said in a thick French accent, offering it to me. It looked like a foil sleeve used to keep food warm. I thanked him, paid the bill and left him a generous tip. With my journal protected from the shower, I held it over my head, and made a run for the hotel entrance a few doors away. In my room, I cleaned my teeth and for the first time in days, climbed into a soft and comfortable bed.
Tuesday 31st July 1990
How I crave a full English breakfast. There is nothing quite like crispy bacon in the morning. Instead, I crammed more coffee and pastries down me, packed my few clothes into the small bag and returned the key to reception. Having paid cash in full the night before, I made a conscious effort to spend my remaining Francs with caution. Using a credit card abroad could be traced, and as the Grand Master of the Order of Malta warned me, the Jesuits have members in all sorts of places, particularly within the law.
By the time the Musée D’Orsay opened, I was first in the queue for tickets. I paid my fee and walked steadily up the steps to the first floor. I wandered about the exhibits, waiting for the café to open, then carried a cup of tea to a table where I could see everyone arrive at the top of the stairs. An hour passed where I had scrutinised every passing visitor but there was no sign of David. A second cup of tea came and went, along with a madeleine or two. Taking my journal from its shiny sleeve, I wrote a little, but could not concentrate.
At midday, he still had not arrived. I stretched my legs on a wander around the exhibits, pausing at one of the famous clock faces to peer out between the giant hands at the people below. I could hardly believe my eyes. Lady Charity and Carmine, pushed through crowds on the bridge and were heading directly for the museum. How the hell could they have known where I was?
I hurried back to the Claudel exhibit and glanced around for a suitable place to hide that would allow me the best lines of sight. The Post-Impressionist Gallery rooms seemed like a good bet, until I realised that they could easily block my exit. I ran around the mezzanine landing to the Terrasse des Sculptures, and ducked into a sectioned room. Claudel’s installation was just visible across the atrium whenever the crowd thinned.
It felt like hours, but I stayed put, squinting every now and then along the landings for a glimpse of the gorgon and her mate. I assumed that they were sweeping through the ground floor before working their way up the building. My first sighting was of Lady Charity. She stepped down onto the landing, and turned left into a cluster of six interconnected rooms.
My knees trembled with the strain of leaning sideways to peep around the walls that obstructed a clear view down the landing space. Heat inflamed my skin as my metabolism raced from the hormone rush. Lady Charity emerged from the first cluster of linked rooms, and barrelled into the next. She was almost upon me.
Across the atrium, I spotted Carmine weaving in and around the row of sculptures, before doubling back to bull-doze his way through visitors and into the exhibition rooms. With all my attention focused on them, I failed to notice David’s arrival. He too, glanced this way and that, but he was on the lookout for me. Darting down the length of statues, he was on a collision course with Carmine.
Lady Charity was just a few feet away. I turned and faced the noisy assembly of visitors, picking out a group of teenagers from a school party, jostling and joking, and paying no heed to the exhibits. I dashed across to them, opening my wallet as I walked. “Any of you lads speak English?” I said. They were my only hope. Money exchanged hands and instructions given in haste, and then I hunkered down and waited.
As good as their word, the four teenagers ran through the crowds, whooping and hollering until they reached the furthest end of the floor. Then, with courage that I would not have imagined possible at that age, they began climbing on the bronze and alabaster statues. The entire place in uproar, visitors flocked in disgust or merriment, blocking the path of the museum guards and attendants.
I ducked behind the doorway as Lady Charity rushed to see the commotion, then hurried in the opposite direction, around the mezzanine, to flag down David. Carmine the hulk was not fooled by my little distraction. As soon as I was within ten feet of my son, Carmine saw me. His teeth gritted into a snarl, he broke into a jog.
“David…run!” I turned my back to them, dashing towards the stairs, knowing that he was far quicker on his feet than I. David caught up with me just halfway down the first flight of concrete steps.
“Nice to see you too, Dad. Who are we running from?”
“Not now, son.”
I thought the cartilage in my knees would pop as we both hurtled down to the exit, past the glass frontage and queues for entry, and across the paved area to the Metro steps. Swinging around the arm rail I glanced back. Carmine the hulk lagged behind, his face crimson, his neck receding into his hunched shoulders. For all his muscle mass, Carmine lacked endurance.
“Did you buy a travel pass?” I asked between my own laboured breaths. David reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out the card and waved it at me. With our travel fees taken care of, we passed through the barriers and hopped on whichever train stood at the platform. Holding my bag against my chest, I
crammed into the packed carriage next to my boy, and watched the doors close across my face. I could just see Carmine pacing at the ticket barrier, struck with indecision, as we pulled away.
One stop later and David signalled for us to disembark at Invalides. Back on the Parisian pavements, we finally had a moment to greet each other. I could not contain my happiness any longer. We hugged a bone crushing, dewy eyed hug of relief.
“Dad,” He said, with a gravity that threw me. “I left my colleagues, mid-mission. You know what they will do to me now?”
“Believe me, son. You were in far more danger if you had stayed.”
“Like Derek Cross from Newhaven?”
“Almost. Your colleagues are not double agents for the Cold War Russians, but they were poised at the ready to dispose of you.”
David led me back to a tiny Bed and Breakfast style hotel, a few streets away from the station. I did my best to summarise the threats issued from Anthony Knight, the Minister for Defence, regarding the vaccines, but without the full story to back me up, they sounded hollow. A bit like an old man worried about his reputation. I promised him that I would explain in full, as soon as the opportunity arose.
Our next task was to get back to England, without arousing suspicion or ports warnings. David packed the last of his stolen MI6 equipment into a holdall, and handed me a British passport and drivers licence. The name on the licence said Derek Cross. I scrunched my nose with incomprehension and then David opened the back page of the passport. My photograph lay beneath the laminated surface.
“I made them in my layover at Istanbul. You can be Derek Cross, and I am your son, David Cross. We can hire a car a few streets from here and catch the ferry over to England.”
I pored over the passport. It was perfect. Slightly battered and creased, with a few stamps for European Countries in the pages. He must have picked up on my amazement. David smiled and said, “Why do you think I have all this equipment? This is part of what I do.” Sometimes, he makes me so proud that I think my chest might burst.
Within an hour, we had secured a small Renault, packed our luggage and filled the tank with petrol. David took the first shift, driving through the treacherous streets of Paris, with the aim of joining the autoroute to Normandy. As the traffic lessened, I began to relate an expanded version of my tale.
It was when I reached the part involving Lily that his countenance changed. I hadn’t the heart to tell him about the adulterous liaison. That was something she needed to discuss in person. I did, however inform him that I believed their home was bugged, and that I had sent both his wife and daughter to the Welsh wilderness. His immediate reaction was to pull over at the first opportunity to hunt for a payphone to call them.
We stopped in a tree-lined borough, all boutique shops and patisseries, and I handed over the contact details for Lily. I left him to his private conversation. That would be difficult enough for him, without his dad hovering over his shoulder. I sauntered into an empty restaurant with my journal, and ordered for us both. I could see from David’s posture and the jerked arm movements that his telephone call to Lily was less than amicable. At least he managed to get hold of them. That alone was cause for celebration.
While I waited, I read through my account of the vision from Phebe in my diary. If she deliberately left the sealed tin with her maid before fleeing the estate, it must surely follow that her intention was to get the servant to hide it in the house. As soon as we get back to England, we need to find out where the Sedgewell Estate is located.
I fished in my trouser pocket for my house keys, picking through each metal piece on the ring until I reached the numbered one from the solicitor, the bank box key. There was sure to be some information to help us find Phebe’s book in there, but from which bank did the key belong? It would be in the Earldom documents. I checked the time. Wildman would still be working through his patient list. Better to call him at the end of the day and hope that MI6 are not monitoring surgery telephone lines. If the settlement papers were sent to my address, Wildman would have them.
David joined me at the restaurant table, windswept and agitated. “Well, the good news is that they are both safe, although Lily’s mood has not improved much.”
“And the bad news?”
“She is staying with an ex-boyfriend, from years ago.” He drank half a glass of water in a couple of gulps. “I had no idea that they were still in touch.”
I had no words that could console him. This was beyond my help. Only he could sift through the broken fragments of their marriage and find a way to shore up the foundations. To do that, he needed to spend more time at home with his wife and child.
The food arrived and we ate in turns, each of us keen to divulge the secrets that had held us at arm’s length for years. But, how do you begin a conversation of such immensity? Undeterred, I began. “David, you know how over the years I have predicted some pretty bizarre things, that in time, often came true?”
“Yeah, you’re a bit of a freak like that. Remember when you foresaw the Tory Party Conference bombing at the Grand Hotel on Brighton’s seafront? That was spookily accurate. You wouldn’t let any of us near the front all day.”
“In all fairness, I didn’t know that it was a bomb. If I had, I would have found a way to warn them. Didn’t it ever occur to you, that it was more than just a spooky guess?” He didn’t respond. He stopped eating, staring deep into my eyes, waiting for me to explain. “My grandmother had the same gift. Precognition. Hers was much stronger and more accurate than mine, or rather I should say, more detailed. Sometimes gifts skip generations, other times they lie dormant until something triggers the ability. It’s all a bit hit and miss.”
David’s mouth fell open. I could see he was grappling with the information and extrapolating his findings to others in our family. “Mary?” he said, in no more than a whisper.
“Potentially. Not precognition, something far more dangerous. We must do all we can to suppress her power, or it could render her a target. With any luck, she will remain undetected for her entire life, perhaps even to herself.”
He pushed his plate away, his blanched complexion indicating his nausea. “Is it just you, and this Grandma Phebe with abilities?”
“My father too. He was more like Mary. When I was a child, he could look into my eyes and be able to recite whatever I was thinking. He would know when I was lying before I did. It drove us apart in the end.”
“So, all those times when you were strict on me, not letting me go to parties or refusing to give permission for a school trip, those were times when you foresaw a potential disaster?”
I nodded. “If there was a chance to protect you, I had to take it, even if it meant you not speaking to me for months afterwards.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me if I had?”
“Probably not.” He sighed. “So why now?”
“Because I had a clear vision about the predicament we now face. I saw Grandma Phebe write a letter to me, even though she herself was still unmarried. Her ability was so strong, she wrote all that she saw in a diary and hid it somewhere for me. I believe that she has left me way to be rid of the shackles from all these powerful groups.”
“These are the groups who want to use your gift of foresight? The wealthy Americans, the British Government and the Catholics?”
“The Jesuits don’t want me for my ability. They would rather we didn’t exist.” I held my breath. How do you tell your son that he could be a direct descendant of the founder of Christianity? “It turns out, that Grandma Phebe was from a noble family. The entire estate was left in abeyance until her family line could be traced. We are that line.”
“Oh, my God! That was what Lily was wittering about. She said some bloke in a Bentley kept calling you my lord.”
My cheeks warmed, spreading the heat to my ears. “Technically, I am the Eighth Earl of Sedgewell.” David laughed. It was so nice to s
ee him smile. “I’m glad you find it so amusing.” I chuckled. “You’ll be the Ninth, when I pop my clogs.”
“But it’s just so…I can’t get my head around it.” He looked dazed, information overloading his neural networks. “Why are the Catholics so against us? We are not a religious family, unless you count science as a religion. What is it that angers them to the point of demanding your presence in Rome?”
I answered his question by fleshing out the details of my encounter in the old War Office’s library, when Anthony Knight displayed our family tree. Of turning the pages in the feathery tome, back through the centuries, beyond the first Crusades, and back to the dawn of Anno Domini. David grew still. His brow knotted in a twist of concern and bewilderment.
“If I understand this correctly, you are suggesting that Jesus was not unique, not a saviour sent from God, his gifts were just a quirk of our family genetics?”
Shushing him to a more confidential volume, I said; “I’m not suggesting anything, but that appears to be the conclusion drawn by others, and why we now have a giant bulls-eye painted on our backs.” I glanced towards the kitchen area, conscious that we may have been overheard.
A lithesome woman, dressed in figure-hugging sportswear entered the restaurant. She pulled off her baseball cap, allowing her blond ponytail to slip though the fastening and fall to her shoulder blade. In elegant bounds, she walked to the counter.
“Bonjour! Allo?” She leaned across into the kitchen area. “Allo?” She had flawless skin as pale as alabaster.
The manageress greeted her with a string of French that I was unable to keep up with, but from the way she flitted about her, I surmised that they knew each other and that it was an unexpected visit.