(1992) Prophecy (40 page)

Memories washed over her. She walked over, afraid to go too close. The letters of the alphabet lay in random order, the words
Yes
and
No
in their midst, mottled now with black spots of mildew.

The clergyman had pulled a phial of holy water and a silver salt cellar from his bag and set them on the barrel. Then two silver candlesticks, into which he pushed candles, which he lit. A chalice, a silver tray and a silver stoup were also produced. Mouthing a silent prayer, he poured some water into the stoup and added some salt. Working in the flickering candlelight, he was slow, tidy, methodical, as if he had all the time in the world.

He raised the stoup, ‘Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you.’ He said the words firmly, but without raising his voice. Then he pulled what looked like a silver ball and chain from his bag. The ball had tiny holes, like a sugar shaker. An aspergillum, Frannie realized.

He carefully immersed the head in holy water, before raising the aspergillum by its chain so that it swung gently. Then he raised it higher as if making sure that whoever or whatever was present could see it. He began to swing it on its chain, slowly at first, then faster, until flecks of water sprinkled the wall. At the same time the clergyman began to move around the cellar, repeating the words and procedure over and over.

‘Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you.’

*

Outside the lead demolition ball that hung from the jib of the crane, twenty feet above the rod, moved a fraction in a gust of wind. As the gust died away it continued to move, in a faint, barely discernible, rocking motion; the ball gradually began to swing faster, making wide, sweeping arcs until it was swinging too hard for the jib to contain it and the whole crane began to sway with it. The lead ball swung like the aspergillum in the clergyman’s hand. Like the lampshade in Frannie’s sitting-room. Harder and harder. Until it rose too high and the chain went slack. Then it fell with a dead-weight of five tons. Plummeted unchecked through the air as the slack of the chain paid out. Then tightened. Sharply. Too sharply.

The top of the jib’s superstructure sheared away and was yanked sharply downwards by the demolition ball as it plunged straight down through roof tiles and rotting timbers.

Below in the cellar, Benedict Spode made another swing with the aspergillum. Holy water spattered on the brickwork.

‘Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you.’

He took a step to the left and began the same performance. As he did so, Frannie heard a faint splitting sound like sticks of firewood being snapped. Then a deep rumble. A train, she thought at first, but it was different: deeper, more threatening. She saw jagged spidery cracks rip across the walls and ceiling. Dust and small stones showered down on them, striking her head, her hands.

‘Get out!’ she shouted. ‘Get out!’

The whole cellar was shaking and dust was avalanching down through the open hatch. Frannie shouted again, then something slammed into her shoulder,
sending her crashing to the floor. The noise had become deafening. She heard someone scream, but dust and plaster filled her own mouth and she choked, blinded by dust.

Then there was silence.

She felt wind on her face and tried to move. But she was pinioned, trapped. She spat out a mouthful of dust. ‘Mr Spode?’

A faint haze of light made its way through the mist that was stinging her eyes. Then the mist itself started to clear. Dust, settling. Above her was a strange orange glow and familiar pinpricks of white in an oily blackness beyond. Shadowy walls rising up. Then Frannie realized, confused, that she was looking straight up at the night outside.

There was a face. Someone staring down at her. A small man standing looking down through the crater in the floor above. He was smiling and she thought that was incongruous. Smiling, and there was a gleam in his eye. Then she saw with blind terror that it was not a man at all.

It was Edward.

As Frannie watched, Edward disappeared.

She struggled to free herself from the dead-weight crushing her legs and her left shoulder, but panic snaked up and down inside her.

‘Mr Spode?’ she called out.

Silence. She felt like an insect trapped in a matchbox.
Beetles are vermin, Daddy.

‘Mr Spode?’

She choked on dust and coughed again. She strained her eyes but could see nothing. Something sharp was digging into her wrist; she pulled, twisted, but it dug in further. She looked up again but could see nothing except the faint orange haze.

A shadow moved. She heard a scrape, like a dragging foot, and her muscles went into spasm. But still she couldn’t shift her legs; they felt set in cement.

She heard another scrape. Louder. Then again. Behind her. She could still move her head and now she spun it round frantically.

A silhouette standing; someone small. A torch came on and the beam blinded her. It moved away from her eyes and in the spill of light she could see that it was Edward.

He was motionless, concentrating on her.

‘Edward!’ she called out. Try to talk to him, get through to him, she thought desperately.

His lips moved but she could not hear what they said. The beam of his torch raked the cellar. It had caved in and she was in an enclosed pocket. Then the beam struck a face to her left.

It was Benedict Spode; his back and his legs crushed flat by the demolition ball. His tongue was sticking out and a trail of yellow bile dribbled from it, down into the pool of blood that was spreading slowly out across the floor and towards Frannie.

Bursts of a throttled scream gouted from her throat. Edward took a step towards her. Then another, his lips moving, talking, saying something she could not hear.

Her right arm was the only limb she could move and she slid it across the rubble without taking her eyes off him, then closed her fingers around a chunk of masonry, gripped it tightly and swung it back, demented enough to use it.

Edward walked solemnly towards her, eyes glazed, lips still chanting inaudibly; he was wearing his school uniform of grey jacket and shorts, and striped tie. She lifted the stone chunk higher, bracing herself. He continued chanting, and as he came closer she realized with rising terror that it was not his own voice coming from his mouth, but that of someone much older.

He walked on past her, knelt and picked up the aspergillum that lay just beyond the outstretched fingers of the dead clergyman, stood and swung it from the chain. Droplets of holy water struck Frannie in the face.

‘Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you. Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you,’ he repeated much louder and clearer in a no-nonsense voice that she recognized.

He knelt again and began pulling away the rubble beside Canon Spode, chanting to himself. Now he was saying the Lord’s Prayer. Frannie watched as he unearthed the silver tray and the chalice, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for, and what to do next. From the buried holdall he removed a bottle of communion wine and some wafers.

‘Listen to our prayers, Lord,’ he said. ‘As we humbly beg Your mercy.’

Frannie could not comprehend it, but the voice coming from Edward was that of the clergyman who was lying dead on the floor. The clergyman was speaking through the boy.

Edward continued with calm assurance. With authority. ‘Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg Your mercy, that the soul of Your servant Francis Edward Alwynne Halkin, whom You have called from this life, may be brought by You to a place of peace and light, and so be enabled to share the life of all Your saints. Through Christ our Lord, Amen.’

‘Amen,’ Frannie echoed involuntarily, releasing her grip on the masonry.

‘We pray You, Lord our God, to receive the soul of this Your servant Francis, for whom Your blood was shed. Remember, Lord, that we are but dust and that man is like grass and the flower of the field. Lord grant him everlasting rest, and let perpetual light shine upon him. O God it is Your nature to have mercy and to spare. Grant to Your servant Francis, Lord, a place of rest and pardon.’

The boy with the presence of an adult was quiet for a moment. A siren faded into the distance, and Frannie had the strange impression that someone else was standing beside them. But she did not dare look away from the miracle taking place in front of her. Edward had begun saying the Lord’s Prayer again, and she joined him.

When they had finished, he picked up the Host and broke a piece into the chalice. ‘Lamb of God,’ he said, ‘You take away the sins of the world; have mercy on us. May this mingling of the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us who receive
it.’ He carried the host to Frannie and placed it in her hand.

‘Take, eat,’ he said.

She raised it to her mouth and put it on her tongue. The sweet, papery wafer dissolved.

Then he brought her the chalice, and placed the rim to her lips. She tasted silver polish; then heavy, sweet wine, swallowing gratefully.

‘This is the Blood of Christ.’ Edward’s words were spoken confidently and he put the chalice down. ‘Lord God, Your Son gave us the sacrament of His Body to support us in our last journey. Grant that our brother Francis may take his seat with Christ at His eternal banquet: Who lives and reigns for ever and ever.’

‘Amen,’ whispered Frannie.

The air felt warmer and she was no longer afraid. Edward knelt beside her. The darkness had lifted and she could see that his eyes looked bright, and he was smiling. His voice was normal again.

‘Are you OK, Frannie?’

She nodded.

‘It’s all right now, isn’t it, Frannie?’ He knelt and began to pull the rubble off her. As he worked, she stared at the small boy’s face and remembered his question:
Do the dead stay dead?

Benedict Spode had been armed with the authority of the Church and he had died. But not quite. By killing Spode, the second Marquess had not diminished the clergyman’s authority, but had given him a new weapon: Edward.

Non omnis moriar
.

In his death Canon Spode had channelled his spirit through Edward.

Frannie put her arm up and gently took Edward’s hand, the clergyman’s words echoing in her head.
When evil becomes out of control, those who have the authority of the Church are stronger in dealing with it than anyone else
.

Something else that he had said echoed also.
I believe that there is order in disorder
.

Frannie pulled Edward tightly to her; he did not seem to mind that tears were streaming down her face. It was as if they both knew that here in the rubble of the past, and in the presence of death, somehow they were now free.

July, 1999

When Charles Richard William Halkin was seven he discovered his half-brother’s secret place, where Edward would go and smoke. He discovered it by following him through the attics beyond the nursery. He had watched Edward crawl out of a window, and had crawled after him, along the parapet and into a hollow beside one of the massive chimneys.

Edward had been annoyed the first time, but now he let Charles join him whenever he wanted. On a fine day you could see across the hills and far out into the English Channel. Edward said that the line on the horizon was France, although Charles didn’t really believe him. There were a lot of things Edward told him that he didn’t really believe and he preferred to try to find the truth out for himself. Discovering things gave him a great thrill. He liked to work everything out and had inherited a logical, analytical mind from his mother; he was always piecing things together from little fragments.

Once when he was bored and rummaging through some old suitcases in one of the attics, he found a battered case with a faded Alitalia luggage label. Inside it was full of photographs of his mother and some of his uncles and aunts, as well as old magazines and bundles of letters. As he was closing the case, he noticed an envelope that looked more recent than the rest and he glanced at it. It was addressed: ‘Francesca, Lady Sherfield, Meston Hall, Meston, East Sussex.’

Inside was a brief letter with a strip of paper attached. The letter was in rather scrawly handwriting.

Charles unclipped the strip of paper. It was about two inches wide, and lined, and looked as if it had been torn from a diary. On one side there was an address. On the other were two names, in list form:

When he was younger, Edward had told Charles that he wasn’t like a proper brother because they did not have the same mummy. Charles understood that; he knew Edward’s mummy had died a long time ago.

He understood also that it was Edward who would inherit his father’s title one day. His father was the twenty-fourth Marquess of Sherfield, and Edward would become the twenty-fifth Marquess. When Edward died, his eldest son would become the twenty-sixth Marquess. Unless Edward died without having a son, in which case the title would pass to Charles.

On the whole, Charles liked Edward, and in spite of their age difference they got on well, although sometimes he had a weird thought about him. He would imagine that he was watching Edward falling to his death from the parapet.