Isabella's Heiress (3 page)

Father Eamon sighed. “Follow me. There is something you must see.” He headed towards the lorry: Emma followed him but started to get a strange feeling in her stomach as they walked.

At the front of the lorry, a police officer was bending down and leaning forward to remove a sheet.

“Brace yourself, child.”

The sheet came off and Emma saw her broken body lying in front of the wheels. A red and brown trail headed back under the lorry. Emma knew where it ended up.

Emma felt the warmth of her tears as they landed on her cheeks. “No, no, no, this isn't happening. That's not me. It can't be.”

There was a collective groan around her as one of the undertakers walked away from the scene.

Emma turned away, not wanting to see any more. In doing so she caught the sunlight bouncing off the van's open back door. She found herself looking into a tinted window reflecting only daylight and sky. There was nothing in it to acknowledge her existence in that world. From
somewhere inside her, an anguished cry fought to get out. Emma realised that what she had taken to be a thin smile on Father Eamon's face a short while earlier, had been a look of resignation. For the second time that day, a strong set of arms caught her as she fell.

Emma came round, to find herself lying on a wooden bench in a sunken garden surrounded by the smell of gardenias and roses. The Tower Hill Memorial, with its cladding of bronze plaques, had been a regular stop for Emma in her breaks from the drudgery of the office. Memories came back to her of lunch hours spent here, eating sandwiches bought from one of the local delis, choosing to escape to this minor oasis of greenery with its views over the Pool of London, rather than eat her lunch back at her desk.

Now, Emma's stomach was doing its best to pretend it wasn't there and all she could do was stare at the ground. She tried to tell herself that this was some kind of waking dream but the rough feel of the bench and the sweet smell of the flowers proved otherwise.

After a while she became aware of someone sitting to her left. Turning, she saw Father Eamon watching her. Above him storm clouds had reduced what little sunlight there had been to a distant memory. It felt to Emma like her hope was disappearing as fast as those final rays.

“So, is this heaven?” Emma was not impressed.

Father Eamon smiled. “No.”

Emma felt like someone had poured a bucket of chilled
water down her back. She sat up, her eyes widening as she took in her new surroundings. “Then, this is hell?”

“‘Tis neither heaven nor hell, Emma. It is as I said earlier, you have reached a plane which is somewhere in between.” Father Eamon paused for a second before continuing. “Look on it as a halfway house of sorts.”

Emma looked at him, unconvinced. “A halfway house? Why would I have to go to a halfway house? That's the sort of place convicts and junkies end up in.”

This brought another half-smile to Father Eamon's face. “No, this is a place for people in your…position.”

“Position? What position would that be?” Once again Emma found herself asking a question to which she really had no wish to hear the answer.

“You died, Emma. Sixty years before you were supposed to.”

Emma felt the bottom of her stomach drop away. She wasn't certain what answer she had been expecting but she was pretty sure it wasn't that.

“Emma, when that lorry hit you, you should not have been where you were. It is complicated to explain but that lorry should have missed you. It is of great concern that you were taken when you were.”

Emma's eyes narrowed at Father Eamon's last comment. “Concern? Concern to who?”

Father Eamon caught himself. “I'll explain that later. Right now you need to understand that everything has changed. Life as you knew it is over. I'm here to guide you through whatever may come next.”

Emma felt bile rise in her throat. She sucked in air, forcing it back down, but the acid started to burn in her chest. Once again she noticed Father Eamon peering over her shoulder as if he was looking for someone else to appear. “So, what happens next?”

Father Eamon continued scanning the walls that surrounded them as he answered. “Now I get you to the sanctuary.”

“Where?”

Father Eamon stood up and looked at the darkening sky. “The sanctuary. ‘Tis a place where people like you go when something like this happens to them.

“Emma we must leave now. ‘Tis getting dark and we should be inside.”

Emma didn't like the way Father Eamon's voice had suddenly taken on a distracted tone. “Why, what happens after dark?”

“Let us just say that it would be better for both of us if we were not outside. Please, Emma, you must trust me now. We must go.”

Father Eamon offered Emma his hand but she got up without his aid, the feeling now having fully returned to her legs. He led her back to Tower Hill, which had returned to its original lifeless state.

Emma followed Father Eamon as he walked towards the junction for Trinity Square. The mist had lifted since she had last been here and she could now see the surrounding buildings that had been denied to her earlier. The scene of devastation she witnessed banished any feelings of familiarity she may have felt. The once pristine facades of the coffee shop that sat on the corner, and the sandwich bar where she had regularly bought her lunch, were now shattered and twisted. The glass and metal that had once been their front windows now littered the pavement in small, untidy piles of debris.

A harsh, grating cry filled the air behind her. She turned
around with a start to see a large, black bird studying her with eyes of smooth coal. Emma heard Father Eamon let out a short groan.

“‘Tis a raven.” Father Eamon's voice was low and cautious. “Emma, we need to go. Now.”

They backed away from the bird, which for its part shuffled along the railings it was sitting on, keeping pace with them. When they reached the corner of Trinity Square, the bird hunched forward on its legs, craning its head round so that its long, narrow beak was pointing accusingly at Emma. Its whole body shook as it spread its wings and leapt from the metal rail. Emma had to make a sharp jump to the left as it hurtled towards her, missing her head by a matter of inches. It carried on towards the ruins that lined Byward Street before soaring upwards and releasing a high-pitched cry that echoed off every wall in sight.

Father Eamon grabbed Emma by her arm and dragged her into Trinity Square. Emma turned to see him looking up and down the road before turning to search the sky. The cautious confidence that had been there earlier evaporated as Emma watched Father Eamon's movements become more rigid and urgent.

“Emma, we must not stay here, it is not safe.”

He guided her to a side street that, she remembered, led to Seething Lane. “Where are we going?” Emma was now searching the buildings and roads around her, although she hadn't got a clue what she was looking for.

Father Eamon looked at the sky behind before giving her another tug towards the street. “Safety.”

Safety
seemed to Emma to be a relative term in her current situation. She entered the narrow road and sped up as she tried to keep up with Father Eamon. They had barely got halfway down when Emma felt a sudden rise in
the temperature. Father Eamon pulled her into a doorway and clasped his hand firmly over her mouth.

“Ahh, Eamon, you idiot. Why did you not see this coming?”

Father Eamon's self-reproachment did not fill Emma with confidence. See what coming? The answer came by way of a mist that billowed into the Trinity Square end of the road and slowly proceeded to fill the street.

Emma's heart felt like it would leap out of her mouth at any second. Sweat was starting to sting her eyes as it dripped down her face. The mist was now halfway up the street and she could start to make out movement within it.

As the mist got closer Emma could make out something else. At first it wasn't obvious, but there was a noise being carried on the wind. A noise that sounded to Emma like fingernails being dragged down a blackboard. She cringed as it got louder but then listened harder as she realised that the sound was in fact a voice. It was repeating one word over and over again.

“Ehhmma”.

The voice reached into Emma's very core. It was all she could do not to bolt off down the street, away from what was coming.

The mist was closing in on them and Emma could make out figures starting to break through into the street. She turned to Father Eamon who raised a single finger to his mouth, slowly shaking his head.

Dark shadows from the surrounding buildings filled the street as the sky turned a deep red and the crackle and spit of unseen flames accompanied the figures as they moved closer. Emma could hear them breathing now and, as they cleared the mist, she could sense the air around them turn stagnant. Their faces started to show below
dusty and battered Fedora hats; cadaverous, with decayed teeth exposed in a rictus smile. The nearest one became clearer, the ripped black suit it wore hanging loosely off its stooped, skeletal frame.

The whisper was now a voice and the words filled Emma's ears: “We have sssuch wondersss prepared for you, Ehhmma. Sssuch exquissite desssolation.”

They were at hand now, and the nearest one raised its head as the stench of its decay burnt Emma's nostrils. Emma wanted to cry, but fought the tears, desperate not to do anything that might attract their attention. Above them, the raven they had seen a short while earlier had now returned and was hopping from building to building as if its feet would melt in to the rooftop if it stayed too long in any one position. Eventually the bird perched itself on a lintel above the doorway where they were standing. Emma could hear its claws scratching the brickwork as it worked its way along, scanning the buildings and pavement for any sign of them. Neither she nor Father Eamon dared move for fear of giving away their position and it seemed like an eternity before the bird moved on, followed by the things, Emma couldn't think of anything better to describe them. They limped past her, heading back the way they had come, but Emma dared not breathe. Finally she allowed herself to suck in a small amount of air once the mist had disappeared round the corner. Emma shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped.

“What were those things?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Not now, Emma. The sanctuary is near. We must turn at the corner.” Father Eamon was pointing to a junction across the road to their left.

They slipped away from the doorway and headed towards a square that looked to Emma to have more in
common with a tropical rain forest than with anything that could be called a London address. The garden in the centre was overgrown to the point where the once closely clipped bushes and borders had become wild and savage.

“Stay close to me, Emma, we're nearly there.”

Father Eamon guided Emma along the narrow street and she started to breathe a little easier. She looked around, taking in the sheltered square, but in doing so failed to see a broken paving slab in front of her. Emma tripped and fell, letting out a small yelp of pain as she scraped her knees on the ground.

“Run! Now!” Father Eamon's reactions were instant and Emma felt herself lifted from the pavement and propelled forward.

There was a rustle of wings as the raven reappeared, its call cutting through the air. Within seconds the temperature rose again and the mist came billowing back towards them. The skeletal creatures broke cover, this time moving at speed, racing quickly down the road trying to close the distance between them.

Emma's chest burned as she fought for air. A pins-and-needles sensation was setting in to her forearms and legs; her body was starting to let her down.

Father Eamon gave her a push. “Nearly there.”

Emma forced her adrenaline soaked body down the road, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She slipped again and fell forward, regaining her balance just in time to see the first of her pursuers close in on her, a victorious look written across its face. Emma raised her arms in a vain defensive gesture only to feel herself being dragged backwards through a narrow stone archway that provided a gap in a long, low wall.

The thing recoiled before the stone gate as the raven gave out an angry cry at having been cheated of its prey.
Father Eamon stepped back through the gateway, confronting them.

“She cannot be touched! You know this! You know the penalties for transgression. Leave now and we will say no more about this. Stay, and there will be trouble.”

His voice was a low growl and it had the desired effect, the creatures and the raven reluctantly retreating. Father Eamon stood his ground until they had been consumed back into the mist, leaving just the raven to disappear down a side street with a departing cry.

Once again the temperature dropped, causing Emma to shiver uncontrollably. She watched as Father Eamon came towards her through the archway before turning to take in her new surroundings. She was in a small, raised garden surrounded by a stone wall topped by iron railings. In the centre, the outstretched canopy of an ancient oak provided cover that sent out deep shadows over the neatly manicured lawn. A row of Silver Birches, providing an unbroken border around the outside of the garden, kept the dark at bay. Through all this weaved a path of rough paving slabs that finished at a door. The door led into a narrow tower at the far corner of the garden.

“Welcome to the sanctuary, Emma.” Father Eamon was standing by the oak. “We should get inside.”

Emma looked back at the archway through which she had been dragged. “Why? Are those things coming back?”

“No, but even if they did, they would not be able to reach you here. This is off limits to them and they know better than to try and force entry.”

Emma wanted to ask who they were but she'd had enough of asking questions for now. Particularly ones that had a nasty habit of having answers she did not want to hear.

Father Eamon motioned for her to follow as he started
up the broken pathway. Emma trod warily towards the tower. The closer they got, the more she could see that it was in desperate need of some tender loving care. The pitted brickwork was kept in place by thick, grey mortar that was crumbling in places. A single step from the path led up to the door, its heavy, splintered body framed in dirty white stone. In the middle of it was a large iron knocker. Father Eamon took hold of it and rapped twice on the dark wood before stepping back.