Num8ers

by Rachel Ward

  A horn blared out to the right of me, injecting adrenaline into my bloodstream, making my heart jump and my legs run faster. Where the hell had that come from? I needed to keep my wits about me. I ran for a minute or so, then slowed to a walk, over a bridge spanning a thick, brown river. On the other side there were hotels and bars, and then shops, not real ones, but the sort tourists would go into. Rip-off shops. They all had Christmas lights and decorations in the windows — sparkly, twinkly tat. Nothing was open.

  I looked at my watch. It was only ten to eight. Right in the center, there were a few people around: window cleaners, someone emptying the trash bins, people letting themselves into shops, or hurrying along, chins tucked down into their scarves, some smelling of their first cigarette of the day as they passed. No one gave me a second glance. It’s the time of day when you don’t want to be bothered with anyone else. If you’re out that early, you’ve got something to do, or somewhere to be, and you just get on with it.

  My knee was still giving me grief, but I didn’t want to stop anywhere, so I walked through the city. There was a group of dossers on some steps, swigging Special Brew for breakfast.

  “Alright, love?” one of them called out, holding his can toward me. He thinks I’m like him, I thought. A friendly greeting to another dosser. And he’s right; that’s what I am.

  “Alright,” I said, my eyes flicking back down to the pavement, avoiding his automatically. And I kept going, stepping over the cans lying ’round the bottom of the steps.

  I walked down the main drag, under swags of Christmas lights, and right at the bottom found the only place that was open — McDonald’s. I’d got enough money for a cup of tea and an Egg McMuffin. I always used to like that smell, the smell you get in a McDonald’s, but as I waited for the guy behind the counter to fetch my order it was making me gag. I took my stuff outside, grateful for the fresh air, and wandered back up the street.

  There was an archway leading to a square with loads of seats and a huge tree planted in the middle. I was right in front of the big church with the tower. As good a place as any. I sat down and put my drink on the bench next to me.

  I unwrapped the muffin. The egg yolk had broken and was oozing out of the bun. I was hungry, but I couldn’t eat that. I put it down on the bench, picked up my tea instead, and eased off the plastic lid. I took a sip, the hotness in my mouth making me realize just how cold I was.

  I looked at the massive building on my left. Notices at either corner said BATH ABBEY. There was a big wooden door in the middle. Above it was a gigantic arch-shaped window. All the way up on either side there were horizontal lines carved in the stone, with figures perched on them; looked a bit like people on a ladder. Actually, that’s what they were: stone ladders with stone people climbing up. Some of them had bits missing, made them look like a smudged drawing, but the ones that were whole had wings. Angels? They were definitely trying to get up there, although some of them were the wrong way ’round, looked like they were about to drop off. Daft buggers, why didn’t they just fly?

  I drank my tea and studied the weird carvings. The drink was warming me, making me feel more like a human being. I picked up the muffin, which was cold now, the liquid egg congealed. I took a little bite, but my stomach lurched as I chewed. No way. I spat my mouthful back into the wrapper.

  There were more people around now. They were making for the area to the side of the abbey; through a makeshift arch I could see some little wooden huts, some sort of market. I could sense the sideways glances, the unease, and started to feel exposed again. Better to move on, find somewhere more out of the way to sit, until I’d figured out what to do. I stood up and hitched my bag onto my back. I was about to walk away when I thought better of it, picked up the empty cup and the vile muffin in its wrapper, and put them in a trash can a few feet away.

  “Thank you,” a guy in a long coat and scarf said as he walked past, “for keeping the abbey churchyard tidy.” He held up his hand in a kind of greeting and breezed over to a little door at the side of the main one, a big bunch of keys jangling at his waist. I turned away and made for an alley to my left, out of the square.

  There was someone in uniform at the other end.

  I swiveled ’round and headed back to the archway where I’d come in.

  Two men in suits were striding toward me — could have just been office workers on their way to work, but they were looking straight at me.

  Shit, this was it, then. All those people I’d thought were taking no notice, one of them had clocked me, perhaps loads of them had. Or that woman in the fields. Bloody busybody. I wanted to shout, No! To hear it echoing ’round this square. I glanced over my shoulder to see if there was anyone behind me. The guy with the keys had got in now, was just swinging the door shut. I ran toward him.

  “Wait, wait. Please.” He looked up, startled, then put his hand ’round the edge of the door, stopping its movement.

  “Help me, please. I’m scared. Please let me in.” My voice was breaking. His pale blue eyes searched mine and then looked beyond me. He hesitated for an agonizing second, then grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. I stumbled into the darkness while he pushed the heavy door with both his hands until it slammed shut. Then he drew the bolt across. From the other side came the sound of footsteps and hands thudding onto the wood.

  Then shouts. “Open up! This is the police!”

  As my eyes got used to the gloom, I could see my rescuer turning around and leaning on the door. He put his hands up to his mouth. “What have I done?” he gasped, looking straight at me. “Dear Lord, what have I done?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  He looked at me.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded.

  “Are they really the police?” He meant the thugs banging on the other side of the door. I nodded again.

  “I should open up, really, let them in.”

  I closed my eyes — after all that, he was going to turn me in anyway.

  “You look exhausted. Do you need a bit of time? Compose yourself?”

  I didn’t know what that last bit meant, but I did want some more time.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go through that door into the abbey and have a seat. I’ll tell them what’s going on.”

  I wasn’t sure.

  “It’s all right. Go on.”

  I pulled on a big metal handle and opened the inside door. I stepped through, expecting more gloom, but the church itself was flooded with light. I was in the tallest space: columns of stone reaching up and up to the ceiling, which seemed to be propped up with huge stone fans. Lower down, the windows were made of colored glass, but up high they were clear, the sky beyond now a brilliant blue. I took my bag off and sat down on a wooden bench. It dug into my back. Behind me, I could hear the bolts on the main door being slid back. Any minute now, those guys would burst through. I didn’t want to see it happen. I closed my eyes again and waited. There was the sound of voices, but I couldn’t catch all the words. The door banged back into place, the bolt went across again. Then footsteps, and the inner door opening.

  “They’ll wait. They’re not happy, but they’ll wait. I said you’d claimed sanctuary in the Lord’s house and that they could not trespass here. A white lie,” he said, with a little self-conscious laugh, “made with the best of intentions.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him blankly. It took him a while to twig that I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Sanctuary? A place of safety,” he explained. He was younger than I had thought when I first saw him. Late twenties, maybe. Thin, with wavy brown hair crinkling over from a side part, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down, and pale, pale eyes.

  “Yes,” I murmured, “somewhere safe.”

  He frowned. “Do you mind me asking why the police are chasing you? I mean, you don’t have to say, not if you don’t want to.”

  “They think I’ve done something bad, but I haven
’t.”

  “Something serious?”

  “They think I blew up the London Eye.”

  The frown deepened.

  “Oh. I see.” He swallowed and the Adam’s apple went into overdrive. “You’re the one, the girl from London that they’re all looking for. That is serious. You really need to talk to them,” he said gently, “to clear it up.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not going to listen to me, are they? They just want someone to frame, guilty as charged, case closed. You seen them, they think I done it, but I never did. I never…” My voice rose, echoing up and through the space.

  “They certainly want to talk to you, but not as a suspect, as a witness.”

  “They’re going to frame me, and they’ve taken my friend, and…”

  “OK, OK. Look, the rector — my boss,” he added quickly, “will be here soon for Matins. I’ll discuss it with him. I need to get the church ready. Do you mind waiting here while I get on? Or you could come ’round with me. I don’t mind.”

  The back of the chair was boring into my back. I didn’t want to sit there for any longer than I had to, so I got up and followed him as he bustled about the place, switching on lights, unlocking doors, and lighting candles.

  “I’m Simon, by the way.” He half turned and offered me his hand. I took it in mine, and we shook awkwardly. His hand was warm, delicate, and surprisingly soft for such a thin man. “And you are…?”

  “Um, Jem. I’m Jem.”

  “Jem. Nice to meet you.”

  Funny thing to say — suppose it was the way he was brought up, manners and everything. I didn’t know what you were meant to say back, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Your hand’s very cold. Been sleeping on the streets?”

  “Yeah.” We’d got to an area at the front of the church on the right-hand side, separated from the rest by a sort of wooden screen.

  “If you sit in the chapel here, there are some warm air vents underneath the benches. Help you thaw out. I’ll carry on ’round, but I’ll be back in a minute, Jem.”

  I sat where he’d shown me, on a cushioned ledge at the edge of the room. At one end was a table, with a gold cross on it. In the middle was a small black pillar with a candle on the top. There was writing ’round the edge. I got up to have a look: DONA NOBIS PACEM. No idea what that was all about. Why write something in a language like that, something only posh people understand? It’s like telling the rest of us to sod off, isn’t it? I read the words to myself, sounding out their strangeness.

  I started as I realized someone was standing in the chapel entrance.

  “It’s only me,” Simon said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on praying.”

  “Not praying,” I said. “I was just…reading it.”

  He smiled. “Of course. They’re lovely words, powerful.” I didn’t have time to ask him what they meant as the sharp sound of a door opening echoed down the church. I flashed a worried look at Simon.

  “Don’t worry, that’ll be the rector. Wait here.”

  He disappeared back into the church. I stood up and went over to the wooden screen and looked through one of the gaps in the carving. A man had come in through a side door, a small man, but solid-looking, balding and with glasses — more like a bank manager than a priest. He was looking left and right, his eyes sweeping around like searchlights.

  Simon trotted up to him, and I listened as the man boomed, “What in the name of the Lord is going on here, Simon? There are armed police outside the abbey. The whole place is surrounded.”

  Simon held up his hands, like he was fending off the force of the man’s voice.

  “She’s a child, Rector. She came to us for help, sanctuary.”

  “I was frisked, Simon. Frisked! Before they’d let me into my own church.”

  “Oh…I see.”

  “Well, you can stop smirking. This is serious. We must stop this right now. We must hand over the girl. Where is she?”

  I shrank back farther into the corner of the chapel.

  “She’s in the chapel, but” — immediately, the sound of footsteps coming toward me — “but you can’t just throw her out. She’s a child.”

  “She may also be a mass murderer, Simon. And I can do exactly what I like in my church. I am the rector, after all.” They were very close now.

  “It’s God’s church.”

  The footsteps stopped. Their echoes faded away into the vaulted roof, and there was silence.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I knew that tone. That’s it, I thought. Simon was in real trouble now, and so was I.

  “I mean, that is to say, this is the House of God. Of course, we look after it, but really it isn’t ours. I mean, we’re the guardians, but…” His stumbling words trailed off.

  “And your point is?”

  “Surely…surely, we must search our hearts and do what Jesus would do.”

  How lame was that? I thought. I’m done for. But I wasn’t, because Simon had found the perfect line, had said the one thing that could save me.

  “What would Jesus do?” the rector said slowly. “What would He do? Where is she?” His tone was gentler now.

  “I’m here,” I said, stepping out from behind the screen.

  He looked at me, and I saw his future: forty years or more, the comfort of growing old, respected, a somebody. I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me; his face gave nothing away, but after a bit he said, “Come, let us pray together, then.” He walked to the front of the chapel and knelt down.

  “I’m sorry, I—” I started to say, but Simon held his finger up to his lips and shook his head, then he shepherded me beside him and we knelt down, too.

  The rector launched into a prayer, a string of stuff I didn’t understand, like he was talking to someone — asking them stuff — but of course there was nobody else there, just us three. And then he was quiet. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. I held my hands in front of me, palms together, feeling ridiculous. I didn’t know whether to have my eyes open or shut, and I shot a sneaky glance along the row to see what the other two were doing. They were kneeling like two angels on a Christmas card, eyes firmly closed, in a world of their own. My knees were getting sore, especially the one I’d twisted getting over the fence. I shifted about to try and get more comfortable, and then sat down properly, wondering how long it would be until I knew my fate.

  Hours later — or was it minutes? — and without saying anything to each other, they both opened their eyes at the same time and stood up. I got to my feet, too. The rector stepped toward me and took both my hands in his.

  “You’re welcome in God’s House, child. You have sought sanctuary with us, and you will find it here. For the time being.” Behind him, Simon was beaming. “This isn’t going to be easy, for any of us. Before we go on, I need you to answer me honestly. Do you have anything with you, any weapons?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “No guns or knives? Explosives?” he said, eyeing my backpack, which was lying on the floor.

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if I, or Simon here, have a look?”

  I did mind, as it happened. It wasn’t really my stuff, it was Britney’s, and it was all I had in the world, but I wasn’t really in a position to argue. I undid my bag there and then and tipped it out, the contents spilling onto the tiled floor: food, bottles of water, my cigarettes, some spare undies from Britney.

  “We don’t allow smoking in here. I’m sure you understand that.”

  I shrugged.

  “And your pockets? Would you mind turning out your pockets?”

  I dug my hands into the pockets of my coat and my jeans and added old tissues, my lighter, the last bit of change to the pile on the floor. Fifteen years old, and that was everything I had in the world.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to search you.” I shot him a warning look. Now we’re getting to it, I thought. Any excuse for him to stick his fingers where I don’t want
him to. Dirty old man. If they started anything, I was ready to defend myself. Neither of them looked like much of a threat to me.

  “Simon,” the rector said, “will you do the honors?”

  Simon looked more frightened than me. He stepped forward. “I’m sorry about this.” He gently patted my shoulders, and then his hands moved under my arms and down my body. He crouched and patted each leg in turn, his face turned away from my crotch but coloring up all the same. When he’d finished there were beads of sweat on his forehead — sheer stress, I should think. It was a pretty safe bet that he didn’t get that close to a woman too often.

  “No, that’s fine,” he said, straightening up. “Nothing there.”

  “Good. Now, gather up your things and, Simon, if you show our guest…”

  “Jem,” Simon said quickly.

  “If you show Jem into the vestry, I will speak with the police and explain that this isn’t a siege. We need to open up; there’ll be people queuing outside for Matins.” He bustled off toward the main door, keen to put his day back on track.

  Simon showed me into a side room, where there was a table, and some chairs, and a rack with loads of cloaks and things hanging up.

  “Just put your things down here.” He was having trouble looking me in the eye since he’d frisked me. “Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on. No milk, I’m afraid, but I could make us a black coffee or tea. I’ll just get some water.”

  He disappeared into the toilet but left the door open. The tap was running for a long time, and I could hear the squelching of soap as he washed his hands, before the unmistakable sound of the kettle filling up. I know I was pretty grubby from sleeping in that ditch, but I had a feeling it wasn’t just a bit of mud and grass he was washing away.

  He smiled straight at me when he emerged. “That’s better. Now, tea or coffee?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY