The Father's House (5 page)

Her mind switched from John to Lucy while she waited. She and David really needed to find out more about her. If they were lucky it might be that her strict upbringing had secretly made her react against the Magnifico. On the other hand she could well be a zealous believer only too ready to report on sinners – for the sake of their souls. They would have to tread very carefully.

She was startled out of her thoughts as a voice below said, “How's it going? Have you stirred the gravy?”

The humming stopped. “Mm. It's a bit lumpy.”

“Let me have a go. What's the matter? Is it John?”

“The good doctors came for him,” the hummer said sadly. “They took him down through the passageway.”

The hair prickled on the back of Dorothy's neck. There was a long silence.

“Poor little fellow,” said the other voice eventually. “I suppose it was the best thing for him in the long run. It was the Magnifico's will.”

More voices floated upwards, but nothing was said about John. Dorothy lay too shocked to move until Aunt Sonia's brisk bark snapped, “Take that laundry up to the cupboard, please. It should have gone up hours ago.”

She scrambled hastily out of her hiding place and groped her way past the shelving. With her ear to the door she listened for a second and then slipped out and shut it behind her. She was sauntering nonchalantly down the stairs as one of the aunts came up with a pile of sheets.

Later that evening in the first-floor flat Father Copse, dark and sombre, sat at his desk staring at the window. Now and then the rain-washed twigs of the leafless lime tree caught the light from the room and glistened, piercing his reflection like twinkling pinprick stars. But he saw nothing, nothing but a black pool of money, ambition, and the hurt that swamped his soul.

The expense of maintaining his family was troubling him. An open file lay in front of him. It contained records of the fifteen children born to his wives on instructions of the Magnifico. Apart from two deceased, and the girl and boy downstairs, all were living in his Copse House commune. Also, there were the aunts and the discards – extra children dumped on him because their fathers had died or been sent abroad. And of course he had to maintain his own private household. His income just wasn't enough. He wanted more from life than just to be able to make ends meet. Admittedly he earned a fortune as a lawyer in the outside world, and the Holy Envoy paid him well for infiltrating the legal profession, but it seemed that no matter how hard he worked, whatever he earned, he needed more.

As he gazed blankly ahead his brilliant brain was working but, unusually for him, it was failing to come up with a solution.

He would have to make economies but he couldn't see where. Sarah didn't receive a wage, and nor did the aunts who worked in his commune. Like Sarah, they toiled for the glory of the Magnifico, and would receive their reward in the next world. It was enough for them that the father fed, clothed and housed them. They were truly blessed. As for the children, fortunately his religion preached austerity so their food was plain and their possessions few, as his had been as a child. Nevertheless, they were a necessary expense because he had a duty to the Magnifico to make sure that they grew up healthy and strong, and fit to further the Holy Cause.

There was one major extravagance. It was crippling him but he couldn't even contemplate giving it up. It was the woman upstairs. He bought her books and magazines, and beautiful clothes and jewellery. She had music and television, and whatever foods pleased her. For all his generosity she had never shown him any gratitude or tenderness.

All he wanted was to see her smile, and to stroke her hair.

Outside the rain beat on the window and the bitter wind blew through the branches of the lime tree. Despite the warmth of the room, he shivered as he imagined how cold life would be without the knowledge that she was there just above him, and could never escape. He stood up and closed the curtains against the bleak winter darkness, then crossed the room to the opposite window and looked out over the garden. The shrubs were dark and wet and depressing. There was nothing to cheer him. He sighed. Everything was too big – the garden, the house, his family. Why did he have to be responsible for a house with status, and for so many wives and aunts and children in whom he was not really interested? Happiness would have been one wife in a little flat in the Temple near the High Court so he could walk to work, and a couple of kids that he could send to good schools and take on skiing holidays.

He pulled himself together. It was not for him to question the Magnifico's will. He drew the second set of curtains to shut out the night and was immediately comforted by the warmth and luxury of his surroundings. Crossing back to the desk he put the file to one side and took another out of a walnut cabinet to his left. He turned to a section labelled ‘Disposals'. It recorded the deaths of some wives who had been abducted for their brains and beauty, and had been brought to him unwillingly. They had refused to be converted to the Holy Cause and had to be disposed of. The woman upstairs should have suffered the same fate, but he had managed to persuade the Holy Leaders that there was a possibility of more children, and that he still had hopes of her conversion.

What was it about her? Was it just her hair? He felt warm when he touched it. It was soft and cloudy and dark, and it reminded him of his mother.

Also under Disposals were the names of three commune aunts who had succumbed to ill health and ceased to be useful. And there were two children who had suffered physical or mental frailties. The Holy Leaders had arranged everything for him with the good doctors. He didn't like to think about that, but it had to be done. There was no room for weakness in the service of the Magnifico, and the lethal injection was very humane. Of his thirteen living children, and the extra hangers-on, he could not think of one who was not hale and hearty, and he couldn't justifiably dispose of any of them. Today he'd heard that the good doctors had taken one of Drax's boys. It always reflected badly on a father if his kids weren't up to scratch.

To his left, at the far end of the room, a purring sound announced the arrival of the dumb waiter. He moved towards it, catching his foot on the Persian carpet as he went. For a split second he wondered if he should sell a couple of his valuable carpets, or some of his antiques or paintings, but immediately put the thought out of his head. He liked to be surrounded by lovely things.

He opened the door to the dumb waiter and lifted the top tray onto the sideboard. Then, closing the door, he pressed a button and sent the other tray up to the second floor. The food looked and smelled good. However many aunts he might dispose of he would never get rid of Sarah. He'd inherited her from a much older father, and she was a wonderful cook. He lifted a bottle of wine out of the rack next to the sideboard and poured himself a glass. Then he put on some Vivaldi and set the tray down on a small table next to the big leather chair by the fire. He was glad he had had that fire fitted. The flames were so realistic. He settled down to his meal. It was pleasant to be comfortable.

He gazed up at the Van Gogh over the fireplace. So crude. Perhaps that could go. He would never have bid for it except that he knew Father Drax wanted it for his own private collection. It could go back into auction, now that he had had his little triumph. He smiled as he thought that Drax might bid again and have to pay more for it than he had. Even with the auctioneer's commission he might make a profit out of Drax. That would indeed be amusing.

The wine was a lovely colour. He swirled it around in the glass and allowed his mind to roam beyond the little world of his own household to the wider and more fulfilling world of ambition. The deputy to the current Holy Envoy would be retiring soon, and the post would be open to candidates. If he were to be elected his income would double and his troubles would be over. He could think of only one possible rival of equal calibre to himself, and that was Drax. It was always a pleasure to get one up on him.

All of a sudden his eyes filled with bitter tears. He had been just three years old when they took him from his mother. Her face was a blur, but he could see and smell her hair now, and feel its gentle warmth. Of course he'd had to leave her, he understood that. Most children left the breeding rooms at two, and the Magnifico had been generous in letting him stay until he was three. But when he turned at the door to blow his mother a final kiss, she wasn't looking at him. She already had another little boy on her lap – a toddler – and she was smiling down into his blue, blue eyes, and stroking his golden curls.

OK. So Drax's mother had died. Bad luck. But there was no need to steal his.

The next morning, as Lucy was crossing at the lights, Matthew and David came out of the bicycle shed.

“What were you writing on that bit of paper yesterday?” asked Matthew.

David hardly heard the question. His head felt heavy.

“What bit of paper?”

They reached the school at the same time as Lucy.

“Hi there!” called Matthew cheerily, just behind her as she started up the steps. “If you're still looking for John, he's gone.”

She turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?

“John's gone. The good doctors took him away.”

Relief flashed over Lucy's normally inscrutible face.

“Wow! That's great news! They'll get him well again.” She smiled. “Do you know how long it's likely to be?”

Matthew was taken aback and his smile disappeared.

“No. Sorry.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know.”

As she moved off she glanced at David and stopped in her tracks. Her relief switched to concern.

“Are you alright?”

He nodded.

“Well you don't look it. You should ask the surgery aunt if you can lie down.”

He nodded again, and she ran on up the steps. Matthew looked at David.

“Did you see her face when I said about the good doctors? She hasn't got a clue, poor fool,” he said, genuinely surprised. “That's what comes of living in Father Copse's private house instead of in his commune. Just so ignorant!”

David too had seen the look on Lucy's face. It was obvious no-one had ever told her about the good doctors. But what was worrying was that he and Dorothy had thought they were the only ones who knew that John had gone. One of the aunts must have been blabbing. He nearly blurted out that he knew already, but stopped himself in time. If he let on he might find himself giving an explanation about the linen cupboard.

“How do you know the good doctors have taken him?” he mumbled.

“I don't,” replied Matthew. “I just assumed she knew what it meant, and thought it would be fun to wind her up.”

“That's really mean.”

“Yeah. I realise that now.” Matthew looked contrite, then brightened up. “Still, she won't know that's what I was doing. If John is at his desk today, I'll tell her it was just a rumour, and if he isn't I'll be proved right.”

Well, you are right, thought David to himself. The horror of it sickened him.

“He's dead.”

Lucy grabbed the back of her chair. “What d'you mean?”

“Well, I can't put it any more clearly than that,” said Matthew a little crossly. “You asked if I knew when John was coming back, and I told you he's dead. What that means is he's died. Gone. The Magnifico's taken him.”

He looked at Lucy's ashen face, and grabbed David's arm. “Come on. Let's go, before she faints or something.”

David shook him off. “Listen, Lucy,” he said quietly, “I'll explain it all to you.” But she turned sharply, and started weaving her way through the rows of desks towards the door.

“Leave her alone,” said Matthew. “She'll get over it. Let's go and get some food. It's Father Copse's duty to educate her, not ours.”

As they watched, a boy jumped up from his chair and shoved it backwards into Lucy's right hip.