The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (23 page)

Claire was in full flow now, relating the tale she’d heard so often as a young girl. She was wrapped up in the legend from head to toe and enjoyed every moment, relaying the information like a museum curate. He watched her, mesmerised, not mesmerised at the information coming from her lips but by the way she delivered it. She turned and faced him as she continued. He could smell her sweet intoxicating breath mingled with a delicate musky perfume. He took half a step forward just to be a little nearer.

“The monks and bishops and clergymen of the time had voted to inspect the body one last time. Thirteen monks entered the crypt on the 24th August 688, over four hundred years after his death.”

Thirteen men in the bar last night, thought Ashley, thirteen Island Keepers.

“The body was intact, David. Incorrupt. A miracle.”

“Indeed, Claire, a miracle. A miracle that anybody believed it.”

Claire’s facial expression changed. She’d been smiling, beaming as she delivered every word, assuming the listener would take as gospel the story her father had told her as a small child, the words she’d read over and over again in countless books, the words Father Thompson had delivered in many a sermon around the anniversary of Saint Cuthbert’s death.

“You don’t believe it, David, you don’t believe the legend of St Cuthbert. The monks, David, they saw it with their own eyes; religious men, educated men, men of God, why would they lie? What would be the point?”

“Men of religion have lied for centuries, Claire. Religion was founded to control the masses, to brainwash the less intelligent individual. Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, it’s all the same, frighten the hell out of the small child early enough and you have them for life.”

“No, David, you’ve got it wrong.”

“Have I? Look at your own form of religion: Catholicism. Even today the priest will pontificate from that pulpit over there of how you’ll be sent to hell and damnation forever and a day if you go against the Ten Commandments. Remember as a child being absolutely terrified to do anything because this all-hearing, all-seeing man in the clouds watched everything you did. Remember, Claire?”

“Yes, but?”

“But nothing, Claire. I was there too, I hid under the blankets as a five-, six- and seven-year-old and believed it too, I witnessed the so-called people of God, the priests and the nuns literally torture the children entrusted to their care.”

“There’s good and bad in all walks of life, David. You had a bad experience that’s all, it happens.”

“The good book, Claire. Have you read it?”

“Yes, of course I have. I–”

“I mean really read it, Claire. The Old Testament, it’s positively evil. Murder, rape, child abuse, ethnic cleansing.”

“You’re mistaken, David. I don’t believe it. You shouldn’t be speaking like that especially in here.”

Ashley laughed. “What… in case he’s listening, you mean? Believe me, Claire, I’ve tried the lot: meditation, hypnotherapy, psychoanalysis and religion is just about the barmiest of the lot.”

As Ashley opened his mouth again, a voice from behind him spoke.

“I’m afraid, Claire, the world is full of non-believers.”

Father Thompson moved up alongside him like a ghostly apparition. Ashley noticed a door closing behind him. He was dressed in full cassock and the regulation dog collar.

“I would assume you’re a non-believer, Mr Fox, am I right?”

“Afraid so, Father. I find it difficult to believe there’s a big man with a beard up there in the clouds that can see and hear everything and punishes us when we step out of line.”

Father Thompson moved around behind Claire and placed two hands on her shoulders. Two versus one. She visibly relaxed, she closed her eyes as if in some sort of trance. Father Thompson spoke, Claire opened her eyes and smiled again.

“Ye of little faith. I suppose you’re a Darwinite, Mr Fox, a man that believes everything evolved from everything yet can’t explain what came first, the chicken or the egg.”

“Can anyone, Father?”

Father Thompson massaged Claire’s shoulders for a second or two then released her, walked back round to face Ashley. He pointed at the roof of the Priory. Ashley looked up automatically then cursed himself for doing so.

“The big man, as you so crudely put it, the man in the clouds, he’s the only one who can explain it. And what may I ask are you doing in our Father’s house if you don’t believe?”

“I’m giving him a history lesson, Father,” Claire interjected, “teaching him all about St Cuthbert.”

“Quite,” replied the priest in a sarcastic tone.”A history lesson last night and one this morning, Mr Fox. Quite the studious type.”

“I’m researching a book, Father. I need to know everything about the island.”

Father Thompson walked towards the door he’d appeared from and, as he reached for the handle, he turned round, paused as he glared at Ashley.

“Just make sure that’s all you’re here for, Mr Fox.”

And before Ashley could reply, the priest had disappeared through the door. Ashley turned to Claire.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

Claire shrugged her shoulders. “You tell me.” She reached for his hand and spun him around.

“C’mon, let’s go. I think you’ve outstayed your welcome, can’t be very nice for Father Thomson to have an atheist in his place of worship.”

To Ashley’s dismay she broke the grip as soon as they walked outside. Ashley racked his brains for something to say, something delicate, something profound. Had he upset her? Had he insulted her intelligence, what was going through her mind? They walked in between the ancient tombstones. Ashley studied the names and dates. Huge conventional stone crosses, Celtic crosses, a sculptured pair of praying hands and the island names: Markham, Douglas, Drysdale and a name that stopped Ashley dead in his tracks.

“What is it, David? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Nothing, let’s get a coffee.” And as they headed out of the churchyard, Ashley made a mental note of the Freemason-type carvings adorning many of the stones. Squares and compasses, a Masonic-type apron, barely visible, finely carved into a tombstone two hundred years old. And he made a pledge to return to the ancient churchyard of St Mary the Virgin and spend a little more time there.

They walked along Fenkle Street and into St Cuthberts Square. Claire checked her watch on two occasions before eventually speaking.

“I’ll need to be heading back, David. I’ve things to do.”

The two hours she’d committed to had turned into forty-five minutes. Ashley decided to let it lie.

“Another time perhaps?”

“I’d like that, David, maybe Mass on Sunday.”

Ashley was about to object. “Only kidding, you idiot.” She punched him playfully in the stomach, he grabbed her wrist and held it tightly. Eye contact again, those eyes, those beautiful hypnotic eyes. Her hand relaxed, slipped to her side. Ashley released his grip. They stood motionless in the middle of the town square, a few locals going about their business, the tourists had begun to mingle, standing with their cameras and guidebooks, but they saw nobody; the square might as well have been deserted. Their lips, barely inches apart, that kiss, a beautiful tender moment, the taste, the warmth, the passion, two lovers entwined, oblivious to the world around them.

The kiss that never came.

As she walked away quickly, she glanced back over her shoulder, mumbled some sort of apology, said she would see him back at the hotel and a different look in her eyes now.

Fear.

Ashley sat in the coffee shop, the focal point right in the heart of St Cuthbert’s Square. He sat with his notebook open and his pen poised. His strong black unsweetened coffee sat on the table untouched. He took a mouthful and swilled it around his mouth before tipping his head back and swallowing. The caffeine kicked in immediately like an electric shock to the brain. He started writing.

On the first page:

The pathologist’s statement, the savage attack

The e-mail

Tom’s telephone conversation with Kate The bank statement

Island Keepers

Masonic markings/tombstones

Roddam

He would need a lot more before he felt the need to bring John Markham up to the island. John Markham’s job came first. Roddam would have his balls if he knew that he was involved with Ashley on a case that was closed and Ashley had to protect him whatever. John didn’t even know he was on the island, thought he was just digging around the libraries and newspaper archives of the North.

Bizarrely, during their last telephone conversation, John had warned him to be careful. An off-the-cuff remark perhaps, but nevertheless one that unnerved Ashley and yet told him that Holy John too was more than uncomfortable with HIS island and the events that may or may not have taken place.

And underneath, right at the bottom he’d written the words

cover up.

Kate insisted that the islanders had done just that on her one and only visit to the island. How rational had Kate been on that occasion? Was she an anxious mother who had read too much into a desperate situation, maybe even imagined or subconsciously invented things. John Markham certainly hinted as much.

And now, his progress thus far and the characters he’d met in less than twenty-four hours.

Not a lot:

Claire Macbeth

Frank Short

Jacob Moor

Father Thompson

The Island Keepers

And scribbled at the bottom, the word
frustration
. Frustration at not being able to knock at doors and question the islanders. Frustration at not being able to show his warrant card, watch the blood drain from an individual’s face and spotting the telltale signs of nervousness and blatant lies.

He didn’t even know where to go or what to do next. He looked at his watch. The pubs and bars on the island would be opening up now; many an inspiration had been found looking into a beer glass. What harm would it do, perhaps he’d get a bit pissed up and rattle a few of the locals’ cages, look for the lads who liked to roll around the floor a bit. It seemed as good an idea as any. Tom had been able to handle himself; it would take one or two good men to incapacitate him.

He left two pound coins on the table, picked up his notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

He walked across the road to a pub called The Crown and Anchor. He ordered a small beer and stood at the bar ready to strike up a conversation with the barman. The barman took his money then disappeared into another room at the back of the pub. Friendly sort, thought Ashley. Then Ashley spotted him.

“It’s Frank, isn’t it?”

The old man looked up over his pint, wiped the froth from his top lip.”Well, well, if it isn’t our American novelist.”

“Mind if I take a seat, Frank?”

Frank Short shrugged his shoulders.”I’d rather you didn’t. I was just enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Blunt, thought Ashley, what do I say now? He looked at the barman who had returned; he smiled a knowing look and began pouring two beers.

“That’s Frank, I’m afraid, love him or hate him.”

At this moment in time Ashley probably hated him. He waited until the barman had poured the drinks, handed him five pounds and told him to keep the change. He walked over to Frank’s table and placed the two beers down. Frank reached across and took his glass.

“So, Mr Fox, how can I help you with your research? What is it you really want to know? I’ve lived here all my life,” he took a generous mouthful of beer, “and in fact you couldn’t be sitting in a better position to know everything and anything about the goings-on here on Holy Island.”

Ashley drained his first drink slowly and deliberately, went for the jugular.

“Tell me about the Island Keepers, Frank. Tell me what it is that you guys get from meeting a couple of times a month and re-enacting an ancient ceremony. I mean, it can’t be that much fun, can it?”

Ashley wanted a sign from the old man, a nervous laugh or twitch, perhaps a reaction, a defence of the organisation. He got nothing. The old man smiled.

“Fun, Mr Fox?” He sighed, rested his chin on his carved walking stick. “No fun, I can assure you. Not anymore.” He paused, looked up at Ashley again.

“Why do you do it, Frank? What does it take for thirteen men to perform a little ancient ceremony week after week, month after month, year after year?”

The old man grimaced, took another mouthful of beer and Ashley waited for his reply.

“Mr Fox. Is that what you really think we’re all about? An ancient ceremony?”

“Well, isn’t it?”

Frank Short looked up at the barman, he looked a little uncomfortable, lowered his voice and suddenly lost his air of confidence. He sighed.

“You said last night you were familiar with the principles of the Freemasons.” Ashley nodded.

“The Keepers aren’t any different really except…” The old man looked around the bar, pulled at his collar grateful of a little air. Suddenly the bar had become stuffy, almost claustrophobic.