Fear of the Fathers (36 page)

“This is Pat Cronin, he's here to help. Can we come in?”

Oggi shrugged. “I guess so. I don't suppose we've got any choice now you've brought him. You could have warned us.”

“You specified no phone contact. What was I supposed to do?” She walked in, closely followed by Cronin.

Stratton was lying on the far bed with his hands behind his head and his eyes shut. He hadn't seemed to notice the visitors. Stella looked at his peaceful face and hoped that it would remain so once he saw Cronin. “Stratton,” she said, giving him a little shake. “Stratton.”

He opened his eyes and smiled. “Hello there,” he said. “Back so soon.”

“I've brought someone to see you. Someone who can help you get out of the country.”

Stratton raised himself up and looked over at Cronin, casually giving him a quick up and down. He showed no sign of anger or surprise. Stella relaxed a bit. “This is Father Pat Cronin,” she said.

Stratton walked over and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Father,” he said. “Stella's told us all about you. Although last time we spoke she seemed to think that you were up to no good. I'm assuming the situation's changed since then.”

Cronin smiled and shook hands. “Good to meet you too,” he said. “Yes, there was a bit of a misunderstanding as to my intentions. But it wasn't Stella's fault. I'm afraid I was less than forthcoming. Although I'm sure you appreciate the need for subtlety in a situation such as this.”

“Only too well,” Stratton agreed. “Let's not dwell on it though. Come and sit down, I'll put the kettle on.”

Stella and Cronin grabbed a chair each.

Oggi pulled Stratton into the bathroom. “Are you out of your mind?” he whispered. “We've got no idea who this guy is. Yesterday she was convinced he was bad news and after the box. Now, suddenly he's alright? Who knows what lies he's been feeding her? I think you're making a big mistake.”

“Do you trust Stella?” asked Stratton.

“Of course I do,” said Oggi.

“Then you should trust that she's made the right decision. Let's hear him out before we start jumping to any conclusions. We need all the help we can get at the moment.”

“Fair enough,” said Oggi. “I see your point…But I still don't like it.”

They returned to the main room and Stratton made coffee. He handed one to Cronin. “So Father,” he said. “You'd better tell me what's going on. And how you've managed to go from villain to hero in the space of twenty-four hours.”

“It's quite a long story,” said Cronin.

“No problem,” said Stratton. “We're not going anywhere.”

Cronin, along with regular prompts from Stella, related the events of the previous evening, including the story of Desayer and Abebi, and where he himself fitted in to the equation. Stratton and Oggi listened intently, Oggi betraying his wonderment with the occasional expletive, but Stratton remaining impassive.

When Cronin was done Oggi was the first to speak. “Fuck me,” he said. “That's a story and a half. I didn't realize it was all so complicated…Well, I knew it was complicated, but I didn't know that so many people were aware of the box's existence. I thought it was a well-kept secret, guarded by monks down the ages.”

“In some respects it is a well-kept secret, or was,” said Cronin. “Although some factions outside the order were aware of the sacred knowledge, they had no idea of where it was kept. The box was constantly moved from temple to temple.”

“Yes, I get that,” said Oggi. “But how did they get to know about it in the first place?”

“The Catholics, I'm afraid, knew about it from the start. Jesus confided in Peter that he was going to leave his knowledge as a legacy for mankind, for a later time when they were ready to move forward.”

“So Peter betrayed Jesus then,” said Oggi.

“No, not at all,” said Cronin. “Unfortunately he made the mistake of passing on this information to his successor believing that it would stay a secret. And so it went on from Pope to Pope. The problem was that Peter's original message became corrupted, and so did the papacy. As the Church grew in power, so did the greed of its leaders, and from the 5
^th
century AD the higher echelons have been searching for the symbols.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” said Oggi. “But what about the Muslims, how do they know about it? Surely the Catholics wouldn't have told them?”

“No, of course not,” said Cronin. “It's only relatively recently that they've entered the story.” He cleared his throat. “It happened in the 19
^th
century when the British were wreaking havoc in India. A young soldier was bayoneted in the stomach and fled into the jungle. He stumbled for miles in delirium clutching his wound and praying for help and salvation. Just as he thought he was nearing the end, and that his wounds were mortal, a monk in a white robe came upon him and carried him to a nearby temple. He was given a bed and his wound was washed and dressed. The monk put his hands over the wound and mouthed an incantation. He then left the soldier to sleep.

“The next day when the soldier woke, the intense pain in his abdomen had gone, and his mind was once again clear. Once he had eaten he was able to walk about as if nothing had happened. The monk undressed the wound and the soldier was amazed to find that the huge puncture had disappeared, and the only visible sign of his trauma was a small scar. He thanked the monk profusely and the next day he left to rejoin what was left of his company.

“When he reappeared at camp, there was a great commotion. His friend, who had been fighting next to him eyed him with suspicion, knowing that he should be dead, or at the very least still ailing. He looked under his top at his stomach and saw nothing but the tiny scar. He accused him of witchcraft. The soldier denied it, and told his friend about the monk and the temple.

“It wasn't long before the whole camp was buzzing with the story of the man brought back from the dead. Once their chief found out he asked the soldier to tell him exactly what had happened. He listened to the tale and then ordered the soldier to take him to this ‘temple of miracles'. The soldier had no choice but to comply with his chief's wishes.

“At the temple the chief demanded that the monks disclose their healing secrets. He said that it was the will of Allah that he should learn their knowledge, and that they would incur Allah's wrath if they held it from him.

“The monks refused to tell the chief anything. He became angry and threatened to kill them one by one until they talked. They stood firm, saying that they were charged by a power greater than he. He carried out his threat and murdered them until only one was left.

“Realizing that the monk would not yield to threats on his own life, the chief took him to a nearby village and threatened to burn it and slaughter the inhabitants unless the monk succumbed to his demands. The monk said nothing. The chief began to kill the villagers, starting with the children. In the face of such butchery, the monk was unable to maintain his silence and reluctantly told the chief about the sacred symbols. The chief demanded to know where the symbols were being kept, but the monk refused to tell him. Before the chief could kill any more villagers the monk grabbed a sword from one of the guards and killed himself.

“The chief went back to the temple, and he and his guards ransacked the place trying to find trace of the symbols, but to no avail. Ever since then, there has been an elite faction in the Islamic hierarchy looking for the sacred knowledge.”

“And it looks as though they're on the right trail,” said Oggi. “If the killing of your friend Abebi is anything to go by.”

“Yes,” said Cronin. “I suspect they're close, but they haven't shown their hand yet. I've got no idea how much they know. For all I know they could be outside now.” Stella and Oggi looked to the door nervously. “But it's highly unlikely,” Cronin continued. “We just have to be careful and alert.”

“Okay then, Father,” said Stratton, breaking his silence. “What can you do for us? Stella says you can help to get us out of the country. Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Cronin. “If that's what you want.”

“Yes, it is,” said Stratton. “We're going to India. We're going to take the box back home.”

“That's exactly what the cardinal wants as well,” said Cronin. “It needs to be back in the hands of the monks. That has been our mission from the outset.”

“Good,” said Stratton. “How are you going to get us out then? I'm sure Stella's already told you, but there's no way we'll get through any ports or airports – not with Oggi here.”

Cronin smiled. “Don't worry, you won't even glimpse a customs official. I can arrange it all for Monday if that's not too soon.”

“Two days,” said Stratton. “Yeah, that should be fine. There's just one other thing – will there be plenty of space?”

“Enough. Why do you ask?”

“Because there's something I want to take with me, something large.”

Annie looked in the mirror, pulled out a length of her long dark hair, and snipped it with the chunky scissors. She held the forlorn strands in her hand and briefly winced, before throwing them in the bin and continuing the task. Once the initial cut had been made, she set about the rest with an icy aggression, punctuating every chop with a determined purse of her lips.

She had left Marvo's cottage at 4am under the cover of darkness. In the back of her mind there had been a twinge of guilt, but it was nowhere near enough to stop her. Marvo had been good to her, and deserting Kamal felt like a damning betrayal, but when it came down to it she was on her own, just as she had been since the age of eight.

For a while she had driven aimlessly, torn between her desire for revenge and her need for peace. There had been a couple of moments when, feeling the pull of Kamal's paradoxically gentle wisdom, she had stopped and almost turned around. But then she remembered her family, and the rage returned even more hateful than before. Ultimately there was no way of escaping the beast within, freshly unleashed by the capricious cruelty of an iniquitous world.

Going to the shop had been a risk. She had covered her head with the hood of her tracksuit top, and donned a pair of neutral-lens glasses that she had found in the glove compartment of the car (a relic from one of Kamal's alter egos she assumed). The disguise had been poor but nobody had recognized her – the receptionist at the motel hadn't even given her a second glance. Now, with fresh clothes and a soon-to-be-new look, she felt confident that she could disappear.

After trimming her hair to a messy bob she grabbed the bottle of peroxide and started the bleaching process. She had done it once before in a rebellious fit during her institutionalization. She remembered how the change had provoked an adverse reaction in the staff, making them even warier of her than they already were. The upshot being a cessation of privileges and an increase in medication. And all for just dyeing her hair.

With her hair still wet she sat on the bed and turned on the TV. She was pleased to see that she had been demoted from the headline to third billing. Topping the news charts was the murder of one of the Prime Minister's bodyguards. He had been stabbed to death in his room the night before. The police were looking for a man in connection with the brutal attack. Annie looked at his picture and thought he was kind of cute, not the sort of person who would be involved in the slaying of a fellow officer. But then it occurred to her that in light of the events of the past week, it would be no surprise if the poor guy was just another innocent victim of whatever plot was being hatched by the Prime Minister's team. Another scapegoat to take the heat away from the real perpetrators.

Then there was Kamal. He was back in at number two, having been promoted as a potential link to the bodyguard's killing. The newsmen were expounding all sorts of theories as to how the two incidents could be connected, but it was all conjecture, and the items ended in more confusion than they began.

Annie herself had no idea as to what was going on, but she did know more than the media, who didn't have a clue that the third story about some deranged lunatic called Tracy Tressel was interlinked. She was caught up in something big, something that she was incapable of comprehending, But that didn't mean she would stay a hapless victim. She had been a victim before and she had no intention of repeating the experience.

An hour later, freshly showered and with her hair transformed, she put on some jeans, trainers and a black T-shirt with the logo ‘BITCH QUEEN', and did her make-up. She layered it on boldly and colourfully, getting as far away from demure and tasteful Annie Steele as she possibly could. To complete the look she slipped on the glasses. They were half moon and black-framed and gave her face a nicely sadistic edge. She felt the epitome of unapproachable new-wave punk, but with an underlying hint of fierce sexuality. Annie Steele was dead, Tracy Tressel was back in business.

She left the bathroom and put on the last of her outfit, a black studded leather jacket. She then picked up a bundle of fifty pound notes and shoved them in the inside pocket. One last look in the mirror told her that she was ready to face the world. She smiled grimly at her reflection.