The Parliament of the Dead (3 page)

Their tall leader, Father Pious, placed the skull they had just exhumed on top of the gravestone.  He squatted down eyeing the inscription, while he rubbed the three-pronged scar on his chin through his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully.

“Here lie the mortal remains of Archibald Higginswaite.  May he rest in peace.” Father Pious snorted,“Rest in peace?  Not without our help!”

Father Thomas, one of his assistants, cleared his throat: he had joined Father Pious only three weeks before, and was finding his new post puzzling and difficult.  Father Pious had grown tired of his questions after less than an hour.  Thomas was aware of his leader’s impatience, but still he had to ask:

“This ritual will really summon the ghost?”

“Correct.”

As they were speaking a third priest was pouring a line of holy water from an old plastic cider bottle in a large circle surrounding the group and the grave.

“And when they are summoned they can’t vanish?”

“Correct.”

“And they can’t leave the circle?”

“Correct.”

“So we can exorcise them?”

“
Correct!
  Otherwise I could think of several thousand things I’d rather be doing at two in the morning than be stuck in a graveyard in the middle of nowhere with someone who keeps asking the most infuriating questions!”

“But then why don’t we use this method more often?”

His leader rolled his eyes impatiently:“Firstly, we do not always have the luxury of knowing where the ghost’s body is,” continuing with a sigh,“and secondly, the materials are costly.  It is more economical to catch them in their haunting grounds.”

“Alright you three, back to work.”The priest was now addressing the whole group. “Check your weapons.  Safety-catches off.  Prayer books out.  Let’s go!”

Shotguns in one hand, prayer books in the other, the four figures sat around the open grave.

They began to chant slowly, their deep voices echoing off the wall of the small church, whose stone bulk hid them in shadow even from moonlight.  The only light came from the small pen-lights they held in the same hand as their books, giving just enough light to read the well-rehearsed words.

“
Woe to you who strive with your Maker.

Woe to you who ate the fruit of the forbidden tree.

Woe to you whose souls refuse their promised rest.
”

The skull on the tombstone began to glow with a faint green light, and features started to materialise around it.

*   *   *

Half a mile away the Ghost of Higginswaite House felt his head dissolve.

“Oh no!”cried Gibbs,“The headless look does not suit you at all.  It’s
sooo
seventeenth c-century!”

*   *   *

The priests watched as the ghost of Archibald Higginswaite appeared around his skull.  First the head, followed by the rest of the body.  The spirit realised just in time what was happening, and ducked behind his tombstone as it was shattered by the blasts from four shotguns.

He tried to dematerialise, but found he could not.  He tried to run into the night, but found he was unable to pass the invisible barrier created by the priests’ritual.  In desperation he lunged at the youngest and most frightened-looking of his attackers from behind, pulling the young priest’s gun back against his neck so that he could act as a living shield against the weapons of the others.

Father Pious did not hesitate.  He pointed his gun at the two struggling figures and fired.  The shot tore at the side of his comrade’s face, who fell to the ground howling in pain.  The ghost disappeared.  The priest found the spirit’s surprised expression as he vanished so irritating, that he spat into the open grave.

Once he was certain that no visible trace of the ghost lingered in the night air, he knelt by the sobbing figure of Father Thomas, pulling the young man’s hands away from his face so that he could inspect the damage.  It was only minor.  Most of the shot had hit the ghost behind him.

“The wounds speak of your commitment my son.  Wear the scars with pride.”

*   *   *

The Mental Minstrel of Mimsgate-upon-Mudd arrived at the scene too late.  From the psychic energy still buzzing in the air he could tell that his friend’s ghost had been exorcised.  His form solidified in a tree overlooking the graveyard and he took in the scene.  If these four black figures were powerful enough to destroy the Ghost of Higginswaite House he did not stand a chance on his own.

“I will avenge you my dear friend,”he whispered into the night. “I will summon the
Parliament of the Dead
.  I will have revenge.”

Just then a convoy of cattle trucks turned off the M1 at Junction 33 and the minstrel was dislodged from his branch.  With a cry he fell from the tree.

The four priests turned to see a glowing transparent shape fall to the ground and disappear into the earth, vanishing in a swirl of leaves.

*   *   *

“Ess many mile to London Town, yes?”asked the Italian priest.

Father Pious yawned. “Two hundred and fifty.  But first we rest.”

*   *   *

Deep underground the minstrel was gibbering uncontrollably.

Chapter Six

‘Don’t Trust Him’

Iona asked her mother for money to go to the cinema:

“No.”

She asked for money to go ice-skating:

“No.”

She asked for money to get an‘eat-as-much-as-you-like’buffet in Chinatown:

“No.  You’ve been suspended from school Iona.  It’s supposed to be a punishment.” Iona regretted asking, as her mother continued,“You are
not
going to enjoy yourself in town.  You’re missing school, so go and do something educational.  The National Gallery and the British Museum are free.”

Iona decided to go on a tour of local tattoo artists.  Her mission was to find one willing to give her a tattoo of a skull on her ankle (most said you had to be eighteen).  She had no money and no desire for a tattoo but she wanted to feel she
could
have one if she wished.

She would need to look older for this mission, so she made her face look paler with baby powder, and then hurriedly applied as much black eye-liner and mascara as she could, while her mother was in the bathroom.  Grabbing her bag, she ran out of the house before Tiggy could see the results.

“Don’t forget your mobile, and
text me
!” Her mother’s voice followed her through the door.

Once outside, her first stop was Body Shop, where she applied the darkest lipstick she could find among the testers

Then she found a bench where she sat and consulted the page she had torn from the Yellow Pages.

However, after exploring several possibilities, she found the tattoo parlours smaller, less glamorous, and altogether creepier than she expected.  She needed something new to do.

Putting her hands into her pockets she discovered the leaflet Arthur had given her from‘London Sightseeing Ghost Walks.’ She couldn’t pay to go on a walk, but maybe she could help out; carry his bag or something.

*   *   *

Fortunately Arthur was in the small office on the South Bank when Iona arrived.  He was talking to a fat, knobbly-nosed man with a Cockney accent who was sitting behind a tiny, untidy desk.

They turned when they saw her at the door.

“Ah, Miss Ward isn’t it?”Arthur extended a sallow hand.

Iona was taken aback that he had remembered her name.

Arthur could tell she was surprised. “I’ve never forgotten a name in all my years,”he explained with a wink.

“Except for old what’shisname!”chuckled his friend,“and old thingymejig!”

Arthur sighed. “Miss Ward, this is William.  William, this is Miss Ward.”

William looked at Iona’s pale face and dark eyes. “’Ere, Art, she’s not…”He leaned forward and continued in a whisper,“…she’s not one of
them
is she?”

Arthur waved his arm as if to clean the suggestion from the air.

“She’s my favourite gate-crasher of the week.  Come to pay this time?”

“Actually, I haven’t got any money,”Iona admitted, looking sheepish. “I wondered if I could help you on your next walk?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“No way if you don’t pay.  Sorry darlin’,”sniffed William.

Arthur gave his friend a quick glance, then turned to Iona. “Well,”he began thoughtfully,“I suppose I could do with an extra pair of hands on my next walk.  It’s for a group of primary school children, and it starts in about 20 minutes.  If you can stop the little darlings running into the traffic you can be my assistant.”

*   *   *

Iona could tell that Arthur’s experience of children was limited.  He kept running his hands through his mop of white hair and tugging at his collar while he looked at his charges nervously.

Their teacher introduced him and looked horrified as Arthur began by telling them a completely inappropriate account of Jack the Ripper’s grisly murders.

“Fascinating,”interrupted the teacher in a high-pitched voice,“but, tell me, are there any other famous historical characters associated with these streets?”

Arthur thought for a moment, then smiled broadly:“Dick Turpin.” From Arthur’s sudden enthusiasm it was clear this was his favourite tale. “Turpin was a rogue and a thief, but he was a gentleman: a knight of the road.” Arthur’s face was always animated as he spoke, but now his eyes lit up, and he beamed with a smile that seemed to contain far too many yellowing teeth.

“He stole from the rich–like a Robin Hood of the road.”

“The poor would cheer as he rode by on his faithful steed, Black Bess.”

Arthur alternated looks of misty-eyed sentimentality with passionate pronouncements as he spoke about the highwayman.

The school children were open-mouthed and staring; hanging on his every word.

Arthur continued his story:“Early one morning, in 1737, on this very street, the dashing Dick robbed a sailor who’d been passing through this great city, bound for home.  Our handsome young hero realised too late that the sailor had important friends and relations, so the Law were bound to investigate his complaint.”

“Dick decided he needed an alibi,”said Arthur nodding in agreement with himself,“but being the flamboyant, devil-may-care character that he was, he decided that his alibi would be that he was one hundred-and-ninety miles away in York.  Now these days if you wanted to travel from London to York, how would you go about it?” Arthur looked round the children for an answer.  (Iona wondered why everyone was giving her such funny looks.)

“My dad’s car,”came the eventual reply from a red-faced boy.

“Exactly, young man, but in those days how would you have had to do it?”

“By pterodactyl!”Shouted one over-excited child.

“Nooo-”said Arthur patiently. It took a moment, but finally a small boy with snot in his nose suggested a horse and Arthur was able to continue.

(At last Iona realised that she had been attracting funny looks because she had been raising her hand enthusiastically to all Arthur’s questions along with the little children.  She hurriedly put down her arm and tried very hard to look cool as she listened to Arthur continue.)

“He rode the whole distance in less than fifteen hours.  He arrived in York at eight o’clock and played a game of bowls on the green with the mayor and other local worthies.  All of them would vouch for his presence there, and none would have thought it was possible to get from London to York in just one day.”

*   *   *

Continuing the tour, they walked down Hanbury Street. “The site of Jack the Ripper’s third victim: poor little Anne Chapman!” Some of the children were obviously terrified.  The teacher was moving from child to child, trying to offer reassurance.  Arthur motioned with his head and eyes that Iona should do something to help calm the sobbing; but when she tried to stop them whinging they found her pale face and dark eyes equally scary.  Just as she was backing away from some children who were staring at her with wide-eyed panic, she heard something unexpected.

“He’s a liar!”

It was a barely perceptible whisper.  Or could it have been the coughing of the teacher trying to get Arthur off the subject of Jack the Ripper?

“He’s a liar!  Don’t trust him!”

Iona put a little finger in her ear and wiggled it furiously.

For a moment she thought Arthur had heard the voice too, as he looked round with narrow eyes, as if searching for the source of the sound.

Their eyes met for an instant.  Iona still had a finger in her ear and a puzzled expression on her face.  Arthur looked cross and guilty, as if he’d been caught stealing a lollipop from one of the children.

The moment passed and Arthur was persuaded to tell another story of the heroism of Dick Turpin.

When they turned into a busier and noisier street Iona thought she heard the voice a third time:

“Don’t trust him!”

Chapter Seven

The Mourning After

At first Morag did not know what to do.  Without Harold she was lost and alone, yet her anger did not allow her to give in to despair.  The Police were very sympathetic about the attack but they had clearly thought she was crazy when she told them about Harold’s ghost.  She reckoned that they would soon send social workers and head doctors to take her away from her home.  What could she, a frail old lady of eighty-nine years, do to those wicked men who had burst into her house?

              She had lost Harold once before, when he had died.  The new Harold, the ghost Harold, had been a different and better husband; and she had fallen in love with him all over again.  She was too old and tired to heal the wound of his loss.  This second mourning would last her to the end.

She did not know what she could do, but she knew that staying would be utterly pointless.  She wanted revenge.  She thought she heard the figures in black say that they were heading towards London.  She could not be certain if she had heard them correctly, and she didn’t know what she could achieve, but she had to try.