Cannonbridge (25 page)

“I always find this part so tiresome,” opines Miss Lavenham. “It is all so very cumbersome and unwieldy, this dressing up. Your husband is quite right—I’ve always said so—in his beliefs concerning the impracticality of women’s dress.”

Constance, who prefers at present not to dwell upon her husband’s opinions concerning the removal of clothing, only murmurs some inconsequential reply, too low for us to hear.

The two women disappear into the second of those little rooms which abut the temple. We shall not follow them there. It would not be proper. Instead we will wait until they emerge again, their old, elaborate attire gone now, replaced by floor-length robes, made, fetchingly, of material that is coloured a deep shade of damson. The others are with them, all dressed identically and, a quorum having evidently been formed, they all file politely inside, quite as if they are returning to their seats for a performance at the Haymarket following a pleasant interval spent in discussion of the first act and in the consumption of some surprisingly tolerable wine.

Who are they, these men and women who choose to spend their afternoon in this subterranean place, dressed as though they are adherents to the most ungodly and inexplicable of creeds?

Why, they are you. They are me. They are our neighbours, our friends, our brothers and sisters, our tailors, our barbers, our brokers and bookmakers and librarians and grooms. They are, in short, wholly unremarkable. Any one of them you might pass daily upon the street for years and never once have the slightest cause to suspect him or her of possessing so profound an interest in the shadow side of life nor that they, with such frequency, expend their free time in the exploration of the occult. Not a single individual would you mark down as being, in private, a magician.

The walls of the temple are lined with purple cloth. Chairs are laid out in two parallel lines, one for either sex. Before these are sigils of curious design chalked upon the flagstones and before this, at the head of the room, is a kind of altar, carved from some manner of black stone and projecting a most unpleasant sort of aura.

How little I should like to touch it,
thinks Constance as she and Miss Lavenham take their seats which are on the very first row of chairs—
how little in fact do I care to be in this room at all.
There is, of course, no natural light here. The place is lit only by candlelight, a thing that makes the shadows loom and shudder at the edges of one’s vision.

“The scene is prettily enough done,” admits Miss Lavenham to her companion. Constance nods.

“And I hear they provide a worthwhile spread at the end of it. The devilled kidneys alone are, I gather, sufficient as to justify the cost of membership.”

Constance is about to reply to this improbable claim when a hush falls upon the room and a figure dressed in robes of a lighter hue than the rest, a young man of barely twenty, already running to fat, proceeds with pompous self-importance up the central aisle.

Lavenham rolls her eyes. “Alexander,” she says in a stage whisper, “the budding ham.”

Constance places a finger to her lips, rather grateful for the opportunity to shush the older woman.

The man reaches the head of the room, makes some peculiar motions around his neck and chest and turns with a conjurer’s flourish to face the congregation.

“Greetings,” he says, “my dear ones. My seekers after truth. My pilgrims, my apostles—those who hunger for knowledge and enlightenment.”

Miss Lavenham clicks tongue against mouth. “At this rate, he’ll be reading us one of his poems before we’re done.”

The man glares towards the front row and, raising his voice a little, continues. “Friends,” he says, “we are gathered here today to perform a ritual which, if my calculations are correct, will allow us to commune with one of those creatures whom our forefathers named ‘demons’ which dwell beyond the veil, in a plane of reality far beyond our own. Today we are pioneers, piercing the skin of the waking world and venturing into that which lies above and beyond. Who amongst you are with me?”

Cries at this of “aye” and “certainly” from those seated all about—polite echoes of the same from the two ladies at the front.

The young man in the lighter robes smiles, gratified. “Then let us begin,” he says. “The operation will be a long one and far from easy. There may in addition be no small amount of peril—for we are to treat today with forces far beyond our comprehension.”

Miss Lavenham glances at Constance with glee and expectation in her eyes.

What follows, however, is, as is so often the case at such events as these, a good deal of tedium. There is much Latin of questionable quality intoned by the young man in the lighter-coloured robes only part of which Constance is able to follow. There is much standing up and sitting down again, a good deal of call and response, a fair amount of chanting and half-sung repetition. There is, notably, no refreshment of any kind.

After what must be more than an hour of this, Constance begins to feel rather out of sorts—afflicted, to equal degrees, by a headache and by sceptical bafflement. The room feels closer than before and the smell of human perspiration is quite palpable. The air is filled with expectation, the black altar gleams, the voice of the man at the head of the temple waxes ever more hysterical.

“The veil is weakening!” he calls at last, at which it seems that even Miss Lavenham is flagging. “Contact is within our grasp. But first! First, a sacrifice is asked of us and I fear that sacrifice must be of blood.”

At this, the two ladies trade glances of uncertainty.

“I have it here!” cries the young magus and draws from some fold within his robes what looks at first like a small red ball but which swiftly reveals itself to be, for all that Constance’s mind rebels at the sight of it, a bloody heart.

It must be from an animal,
she thinks, as the blood drips down the high priest’s hands and mingles with the pale damson of his robes.
It must be. It must.

“The heart,” declares the magus, holding the thing high above his head, “of a corrupt old man whose life was filled with sin. This is the heart, my brethren, of Daniel Swaine-Taylor!”

He squeezes hard and the thing seems to crumple in his hand. Placing it upon the centre of that terrible black altar he smears his mouth with offal and presents his audience with an evil crimson smile.

“Now come!” he shrieks, arms outstretched in hierophantic entreaty. “Come to us, oh demon beyond the veil! I bid you come! I bid you speak! I, the Great Beast, demand your presence before the Order!”

What happens, Constance will think forever after, would absolutely defy belief had she not seen and heard it for herself.

Miss Georgina Lavenham, however, will have no memory of it all for at this very moment she has just swooned away, her unconscious body falling towards the floor.

It is only great good fortune and her own quick thinking which means that Constance is able to catch her in her arms and save Miss Lavenham from injuring herself. “Oh, Georgina,” she says softly.

And then, ten seconds after that, all hell breaks loose.

NOW

T
HE JOURNEY TO
London is the longest and most terrible of Toby’s life. They drive through the night.
There is blood on the wheels,
he thinks, as the Saab speeds on,
there’s blood on these tyres.

He moves in and out of consciousness, his dreams filled with visions of Gabriela, of Caroline, of the murdered Blessborough sisters, of Salazar and Faircairn and Mr Keen himself and, rearing above them all, the dark, mocking, impossible face of Matthew Cannonbridge.

Once, he wakes to find that the car has stopped, in (he imagines) a lay-by. Keen is bending over him, dabbing something damp at his forehead and forcing his jaws apart.

“Swallow these,” he says, pushing a couple of pills into Toby’s mouth and following them up with a sip of water from a bottle of Evian.

Numbly, Judd obeys.

On another occasion, Toby wakes from a dream of ceremonies and invocations, to see Mr Keen speaking softly into his mobile phone.

“Yes, sir,” he says and, “It won’t be long now” and, “Pliable so far.”

His eyes never leave the road. Something in Toby wants to hear more of the driver’s conversation but soon he sleeps once more. He wonders what those pills were and at their horrible efficacy.

He wakes, deep in the small hours, and what he sees then he is almost sure must be a dream—at least he devoutly wishes that it were so.

Mr Keen, head back, relaxed and happy, is singing, with all the antic fervency of a revivalist preacher: “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day!”

Toby grimaces, rubs his eyes, but still the vision persists.

“I’ve got a beautiful feeling everything’s going my way!”

It is with tremendous relief that Judd succumbs again to drugged sleep.

S
HORTLY AFTER DAWN
, they stop for breakfast. There’s a Starbucks by the side of the motorway, a pricey trough for the human cattle who are transported on the roads which connect England to the highlands. Sitting in the car park, seeming, no doubt, to any bleary-eyed yet curious motorist, like a couple of talkative buddies, Mr Keen lays down the ground rules.

“No attracting attention of any kind. No asking for help. No messages on napkins or scenes designed to get sympathy from the baristas. Just be polite, be obedient, be discreet and, above all, be unmemorable. Is that understood?”

Judd nods to show that those instructions are comprehended fully.

“I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” says Keen softly and with a quite inappropriate air of good humour. “In fact, I’d appreciate a good excuse to do so.”

Toby stares at him, still muzzy-headed from the drugs, aching from the trauma and weary, weary from grief.

“Good,” says Keen. “Then we’re on the same page. Come on, Dr Judd. I’m hungry.”

I
NSIDE,
T
OBY PICKS
at his croissant and sips sullenly at his black coffee. Keen, who has opted for the breakfast of a child—a tub of pink yoghurt and a carton of unnaturally yellow banana frappuccino, topped, sickeningly, with cream—attacks his meal with gusto.

Toby watches this display for a while before, asking bitterly: “What made you like this?”

“Like what, Dr Judd?”

Toby lowers his voice, hisses: “A killer.”

Keen shrugs, sucks on his straw. “Socialism.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Used to be a right little Bolshie. Union man. Sold the
Morning Star
on the high streets on Saturdays. And then something happened which helped me realise that the war was lost a long time ago. Money’s the god of this world. We can either serve it happily or we can wither or die.” All this is delivered in the calmest, pleasantest of tones.

“And what was it?” Toby asks. “What was it which triggered this Sixth Form revelation, this startling moment of debate club insight?”

Keen’s face darkens. “Now that,” he says in a voice of overt menace, “is a long story. And it’s one for another day.”

Toby sighs and takes another swig of coffee, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. “Toilet,” he says. “Need to go.”

Keen glares at him. “Try nothing.”

Toby rises to his feet and walks miserably towards the lavatory. The gents are as foul as motorway conveniences always are, no matter how often they’re cleaned and regardless of which conglomerate owns them. Two men are lingering by the urinals and there is a vile smell in the air. There are also, Toby notices, no windows. He goes next door instead to the disabled cubicle, slightly cleaner than the others. Here he sees that there is a window—and one that has been left a little ajar at that.

Fuelled by rage and sorrow and savage indignation, he climbs more nimbly than usual up onto the toilet seat and to the window.

Yes,
he thinks.
Just wide enough for me to get through. If I force myself. If I wriggle and squirm.
He vaults upwards, opens the window as wide as it will go, puts his head out, then his neck, then his shoulders and flails and pushes and strains. The car park tarmac beckons and he feels the giddy joy of the chicken who spies a gap in the farm fence.

So caught up is he in this tiny moment of triumph that he does not hear the toilet door click open nor notice the sound of footsteps advancing across the floor.

What he does notice, however, are the hands upon his legs which drag him from the window and back into the cubicle. He notices the rueful face of Mr Keen and he notices his words, delivered with gleeful mock-regret (“I thought we were on the same page”). He is also thoroughly aware of what happens next. Mr Keen takes up Toby’s right hand, picks three fingers at random and, with an exhortation to his victim not to call out, pushes each of them in turn back beyond the point of endurance, taking relish in each decisive snap. It is over quickly but the pain persists.

Judd whimpers softly.

“Back to the car, I think,” says Keen. “You know the rules.”

I
F ANY OF
the employees or customers of that particular roadside coffee house think it at all odd that a man should return from the bathroom with one hand in his pocket, sweating despite the chill of the morning and with tears in his eyes, then none remarks upon it nor takes the slightest action.

T
HE REST OF
the journey is passed in silence. By the time that they arrive in the capital, twilight has begun to fall.

1897

READING GAOL

“I
CONFESS MYSELF
surprised,” says Prisoner C33, “that you have contrived to see me at all. I am permitted, you understand, but few guests.”

Cannonbridge smiles his inhuman smile. “I have a good deal of friends. Many of whom enjoy considerable preferment. Our meeting was not, therefore, an especial challenge to arrange.”

The prisoner yawns and stretches and somehow succeeds in preserving in his voice at least an echo of that satiric puckishness which once had been the engine of his fame.