The Sin Eater (20 page)

‘A bit removed from student life?'

‘Yes. And the doctors were very good, but it doesn't occur to them that there might be another explanation for these visions. I don't really think there is,' said Benedict firmly. ‘I think the diagnosis is right. But the things I see – people and incidents – are so real. This personality they call an alter ego – his name's Declan – I feel the emotions he feels.' He frowned, then said, ‘I thought if I could disprove these people – if I could . . .'

‘Find there was no record of any of the people or places?'

‘Yes,' he said eagerly. ‘Declan was my great-grandfather's name, so I'm identifying the . . . the alter ego with him. And he did exist, of course. But there are other people with him. I do know you can't prove a negative,' he said, earnestly, ‘but I think it would be reassuring if a search – a real scholarly, organized search – didn't find any evidence of their existence. I think I could just about cope with Declan waltzing into my mind occasionally if I knew he wasn't real. But it's this halfway state I'm finding so hard. Only I don't know really how to go about making a search.'

‘Isn't there anyone at Reading who would start you off?' said Michael. ‘I'm not making a polite excuse – I'd like to help if I can – but I don't want to tread on any toes. Your own tutors, for instance?'

‘I'd rather no one at Reading knew,' said Benedict. ‘Well, not unless they have to. I'm hoping to go back in a week or so and I don't want them to look at me sideways or wonder if I'm suddenly going to turn into Mr Hyde or the wolfman.'

‘I can understand that,' said Michael. ‘I think you'd better tell me a bit more. Can I make some notes? I promise to eat them afterwards so nobody will know. Or,' he said, glancing towards the window sill, ‘I'll feed them to Wilberforce.'

With his usual instinct for timing, Wilberforce yawned and got up to walk across to the fire at this point, and Benedict smiled. Seeing that he had relaxed, Michael said, ‘Take me through the whole saga. Start at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.'

With an air of a swimmer finally deciding to plunge into treacherous waters Benedict took a deep breath and said, ‘The beginning is two boys growing up on the west coast of Ireland.'

I
t was a remarkable story. As it unfolded, in Benedict's rather hesitant words, Michael thought one of the really remarkable things was the logical, sequential nature of it. Declan Doyle and Colm Rourke's childhood – their youthful infatuation with the red-headed Romilly as they grew up; the appalling incident with the renegade priest in the old watchtower – could Benedict really have dredged all that out of his subconscious? Could anyone? Michael reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about the subconscious mind. He reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about Benedict Doyle, either.

As he listened carefully, occasionally making a note of a name or a place, he thought: but there's the chess set. Nell found that single piece – the king – and Owen found a reference to it, or to something that looked like it. And Eithne, all those years ago, had believed it was deeply evil.

When Benedict reached the part about Nicholas Sheehan's death, he faltered, and seemed to find it difficult to go on. He accepted Michael's offer of coffee, and drank it gratefully, then resumed his story. This time Michael found himself pulled deeper into the world of Colm Rourke and Declan Doyle, and into the Ireland of the late nineteenth century, and he found it an unexpectedly attractive world. Benedict's voice was more assured now, soft and measured, with some of the consonants slightly blurred. Nice, thought Michael. The room was very still. Wilberforce was snoozing on his favourite window sill, and strong winter sunshine slanted in. A fly, fooled by the warmth into thinking it was spring, buzzed lazily against the window.

Michael put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. There was a mirror in direct line: it faced a row of bookshelves on the opposite wall and he liked sitting here and seeing the books' reflections, with the lettering on the spines reversed as if they had changed into a secret or magical language. But as Benedict's story unfolded, he began to realize he was not seeing the reversed images of the books as clearly as usual. He blinked, thinking it was the sunlight, but it made no difference. Something was obscuring the books' reflections, something that was trying to take shape . . . It must be Benedict's alter ego, he thought. It's forming – this is what he sees . . .

He turned his head towards the window, half expecting to see that Wilberforce was uncurling from his snooze, or that a large bird had perched outside and was casting a freak reflection. But there was nothing and, when he looked back at the mirror, there were the rows of books, ordinary and familiar again and perfectly clear.

Benedict ended his story with Romilly's death in London's East End, and with Colm vanishing into the rain-drenched London streets, Declan following. He sat back, looking drained and exhausted, and reached for the coffee jug again.

‘That's an extraordinary tale,' said Michael softly. His voice sounded odd, as if it did not quite belong in the room, and he sat up a little straighter, hoping to dissolve the clinging mists of the Irish ghosts. He noticed vaguely that the fly had stopped its rhythmic buzzing. ‘I can't decide if it sounds like a form of dark romantic fiction or simply the—'

‘Ravings of a disturbed mind?'

‘You don't strike me as especially disturbed.' He reached for his pen again. ‘Benedict, if those other people did exist it should be possible to find a record of them. And the places – the church where Romilly Rourke was buried, for instance. Can you remember any other details – any clues in the house, maybe? Papers, documents?'

He thought there was a slight pause before Benedict answered, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he said, ‘No. Nothing. There were a few boxes I didn't open, but I think they were all household stuff – glassware and china. The things Nell was going to look at.'

‘Yes, I see.' Michael sensed an evasion, but he did not press further. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Benedict, I would like to help you if I can, but before we do anything I think we need to clear it with your doctors.'

‘Do we? Yes, of course we do. They might say if any of the people had lived, it would sort of feed the . . . the condition.'

‘Or that if they didn't exist, you might go into a panic and end up worse off. I think you should ask that specialist if he'll OK a bit of research. Explain I'm only wanting to help – that it's meant to squash a wild idea you have that these events might actually have happened.'

‘If I could do that,' said Benedict slowly, ‘I think I could concentrate on beating this thing – or learning to live with it.'

‘That sounds very sensible. Say that to your specialist, too. And make it clear that I'll abide by his advice. If he says we don't do it, then I'm afraid we don't. You've got my card, haven't you? He can write to me or phone or email – whatever's easiest. And if he does agree, I promise I'll do what I can.'

‘You'll help me to find Colm and Romilly and all the rest?'

‘Yes,' said Michael slowly. ‘Yes, I will. I don't think I'll be able to do much until the new term has got itself under way – it's always a fairly crowded time and it'll be several days before things start trundling along under their own steam – but after that I'll start searching.'

Benedict nodded, as if relieved, then said, ‘Dr Flint—'

‘If we're going to be on ghost-hunting terms, you'd better make it Michael.'

‘Michael, Nell West said she'd go back to Holly Lodge. To look over the rest of the furniture and stuff.'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't think she should do that,' said Benedict.

‘Why not?'

Benedict paused, and Michael felt the silence start to become charged, as if something – some hidden force – was starting to thrum.

‘Because he's there,' said Benedict at last. His voice was very soft.

‘Who? Who's there, Benedict?'

Benedict's hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the knuckles turned white, and he leaned against the chair back, turning his head from side to side, as people with aching necks sometimes do to ease stiff muscles. His eyes were half closed and Michael received the impression of inner struggle.

There was a faint movement within the mirror, then Benedict opened his eyes and Michael felt the same cold prickle of apprehension he had experienced in Nina Doyle's flat. Benedict's eyes were vividly, unmistakably, blue. When he spoke, Michael's apprehension spiralled into real fear, because it was the voice he had heard that day in Nina's flat.

‘We both know who's inside that house, don't we?' said the voice that was not Benedict's.

There was a brief darting movement from the mirror, and this time, unable to help himself, Michael turned his head to look. For a split second the outline of a man looked back. A man who wore a dark coat from another era and who had turned up the collar to hide his face.

‘I've been given guarded approval by the specialist,' said Michael to Owen Bracegirdle, three days later. He was focusing on the practicalities of the task and ignoring that fleeting image he had seen. It would have been auto-suggestion or some sort of self-hypnosis – the room had been warm and there had been that dazzle of light from the low-lying winter sun, and the classic soporific buzz of a fly against a window pane. It could even have been a form of telepathy – Benedict could have been believing so strongly in the presence of Declan that he had projected an actual image of him which Michael had picked up.

‘The specialist emailed me saying there was no reason why we shouldn't try to track down one or two of the names in Benedict's story,' he said to Owen. ‘I got the impression he had been down this route with patients before, though: as if people with this condition won't accept the diagnosis until they've made absolutely sure they aren't a victim of some peculiar kind of Biblical possession or a reincarnation takeover or something.'

‘Understandable. I think I'd rather believe I was being possessed by the spirit of my great aunt Jemima, than accept my brain was flawed,' said Owen.

‘He added a caveat. If I came up against anything I wasn't happy with – or anything that might be a clue to Benedict's condition – I was to refer back to him.'

‘Cautious lot, medics,' said Owen. ‘Same as historians.'

‘Well, don't be cautious now. Benedict knows I'm talking to you, by the way, and he's perfectly happy about it. And I need your help – this kind of research is more your field of expertise than mine.'

‘Hmmm. It's an intriguing project, Michael.'

‘Yes, but I suspect I'm on slightly questionable ground with it.'

‘Why?'

‘He's somebody else's student,' said Michael.

‘Yes, but he approached you of his own volition, and you've cleared it with his doctors, and anyway, he's over eighteen and in his right mind – more or less.'

‘That's true. So where do I start? Do I go after the chessmen's origins? He knows Nell found that single piece, but I haven't mentioned that story you found about the Earl of Kilderry.'

‘If I were you, I'd leave the chessmen to Nell,' said Owen. ‘Have you told her about this new development?'

‘No.' Michael had still not sorted out in his mind why he had not done this.

‘The old principle of divide and rule? But whatever it is,' said Owen, ‘it's always a good idea to pursue two separate lines of research – more than two if you can. Don't influence Nell's enquiries, not until you hear what her contact comes up with. Meantime, go after other leads.'

‘There are several possible ones, aren't there?' said Michael.

‘There are indeed. I suppose this place – Kilglenn – exists, does it?'

‘It does. It's not much more than a speck on the map, but it exists, exactly where Benedict's alter ego said. It's on the edge of the west coast, near the Cliffs of Moher. But that doesn't necessarily prove or disprove anything, though.'

‘No.' Owen considered for a moment, then said, ‘It's a colourful cast of characters he describes, isn't it?'

‘Too colourful for them to be real?' Michael himself had had the uneasy feeling that Benedict's people might have come straight from the pages of a novel or stepped down from a film screen.

‘I'm not sure. It's all a bit neat, isn't it? Facts are usually untidy. Real events are uneven. What about that church where Romilly's supposed to be buried? St Stephen's in Canning Town, wasn't it? Is there actually a St Stephen's there?'

‘I don't know. It's one of the areas that was severely bombed in the Second World War. It's just warehouses now.'

‘Ah. Pity. All right, what else have you got?'

Owen sounded exactly the way he sounded when he was prodding his students to think for themselves. Michael supposed he often sounded the same to his own students, but it felt strange to be on the other side of the desk.

He said, ‘The ownership of Holly Lodge has to be a good possibility. Benedict's going to see if he can get a copy of the Title Deeds from the solicitor. Hopefully there'll be some of the house's history – including the name of that brothel-keeper among them.' He broke off and said, wryly, ‘Do you know, Owen, when I came to Oxford it never occurred to me I'd be chasing brothel-keepers.'

‘I shouldn't let that worry you; I'll bet Oxford's no stranger to brothels and their keepers. You're bearing in mind, are you, that you might not have the lady's real name?'

‘I am. “Flossie Totteridge” almost smacks of a Dickens' creation, doesn't it?'