The Sword of Feimhin (32 page)

He kissed her, pressing his tongue between her lips, deeper between her teeth. She felt a wave of revulsion that brought sick into her mouth. She tore her mouth away and
twisted her neck around so that her mouth was half in the dirt.

‘You stink.'

Her face exploded with pain as he punched her, hard into the centre of her face, breaking her nose. She could no longer breathe for the blood filling her nostrils and the back of her throat.

‘And you smell sweet, like a virgin.'

‘Cut me then. Kill me. I'd rather die than be raped by you.'

‘Wishing is becoming.'

‘Do it!'

He was fumbling with his clothes. She felt something obscene touch her.
Abomination!
She was breathing in and out so fast she felt dizzy and faint. She was blacking out with disgust and loathing of what he was doing.

But then a voice entered her mind:

I can't see it. I don't know where it is
.

The voice came back into her head.

What?

Her mind was reeling with the revulsion of his fumbling down there. But still the calm, logical part of her brain questioned what was happening: whose voice was it that was speaking to her? It sounded like the voice of Jeremiah, the man who had shown her the monster.

In her turmoil she willed the dagger to come to her with every fibre of her being. The Skull was no longer interested in what she was doing with her hands. She reached out her left hand, holding it up into the freezing air, and screamed for the dagger to come to her. And then she felt something strike the palm of her hand, like a heavy blow from an iron bar: the hilt of the Scalpie dagger. She screamed aloud, swinging her hand down at him, stabbing him again and again, in the shoulder of the arm that was choking her.

*

Penny sat up, tears welling into her eyes.

She had killed a Skull. They knew her. They had seen her. They would hunt her down until they caught her. Then she would be dead. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know where to run.

‘Why me? Why did he try to rape me?'

She returned the bloodstained dagger to her backpack and strapped that onto her back. One of her trainers had been ripped from her foot by the violence of the attack, but she knew that the voice was right: she mustn't leave anything of hers here. She picked her way around the dead man and the growing pool of blood to pick it up. She had to hold up her jeans as she moved, weeping openly as she did so. Blood ran down from her nostrils over her lips to drip from her chin.

She lifted the hem of her parka to staunch her bleeding nose.

she screamed in her mind.

How strange that it was the soft voice of Jeremiah she still heard within her head. he whispered.

‘I … I don't understand.'

She had to go back through the interior of the cathedral, then through the winding streets to Embankment and the river. Instinct bade her throw both her trainers into its muddy stream. She descended the metal steps of a tube escalator in her bare feet at a run. She vaulted the ticket barrier, so fast nobody could stop her, then hid in a crevice and waited for the station to close. In the gloom, she curled up and cried. Her heart was beating so hard and fast she couldn't fill her lungs to breathe.

She closed her arms about the backpack and the dagger inside it – the blade that had saved her. She listened to the meaningless sounds of the station, her body shrinking down into itself, her mind a blank.

‘The Islington Church of the Saved is truly global.'

‘Really?'

Mark paused mid-stride before walking on again in the company of Jo Derby, Sharkey and Nan. They had separated into two groups, each made up of male and female pairs; the other group consisted of Cal and Tajh. The followers of the Islington Church almost invariably travelled in male–female pairs and they didn't want to stand out in the crowd.

‘Grimstone's church militant has seen phenomenal recruitment over recent years. So much so that the mainstream churches – indeed, various arms of the establishment itself – are in awe of it.'

Mark considered the implications of what she had said – the church militant! ‘But from what I know about Grimstone and his church, they don't share much in the way of their beliefs with the other churches?'

Jo inclined her head. ‘There's no real crossover with other faiths, that's true.'

‘Because Grimstone's way of seeing things – his purported theology – has little to do with traditional Christianity?'

‘That may be putting it simply, given the warring history of Christianity. But, basically, you're not far off the mark. He quotes the Bible, especially the Old Testament, but you know you can argue just about anything from the Old Testament.'

They were heading for Wembley, where Jo had got hold of tickets for the meeting of the faithful. They had parked the bikes a good distance away, guarded by Bull, and walked about two miles to the gigantic arena. No need for sign posts; they just followed the crowds all heading in the same direction. Jo had also taken the precaution of laying her hands on the Church's book of prayers, and badges for their lapels to get them through the gates, which would probably be manned by disciples. They could also expect a heavy security presence, she said, if only to keep the Razzers at bay.

‘You're expecting trouble?'

‘Grimstone's meetings attract them. They won't be allowed to enter the main arena, but you can expect hordes of them.'

Mark squeezed Nan's hand.

‘That's bizarre, don't you think?'

‘What isn't, these days?'

Grimstone had left the running of the original church in Islington to subordinates. The adjoining small detached
house, where Mark and Mo had grown up as children, had been converted into accommodation for visiting dignitaries from abroad, confirming the global reach of the Church. These days Grimstone needed big stadiums to accommodate the crowds mesmerised by his message.

Nan spoke to Mark, mind-to-mind.

Mark also planned to keep a close watch on Jo.

Back at camp he had been observing her, especially her relationship to Tajh and Sharkey. They had quickly arrived at some common understanding. After her rescue, Jo had spent a long time sitting in the Mamma Pig, receiving signals through the rooftop receiver. Once she had emerged, he had seen Tajh make a beeline for her. He had already begun to suspect that a higher authority was regulating and supplying the crews. If that was true, was Jo linked to them? And did she know who the authorities were and what they might be planning?

He said to Jo, ‘I keep asking myself what Grimstone is really up to.'

‘You and me both.'

‘If he's linked to the Tyrant, it's likely to be dangerous.'

‘You're right. Even I hadn't realised just how dangerous it was until you rescued me from the lecture. It isn't just how people behave. It's what they feel – what they think. I'm more and more convinced that there's some element of mind control.'

Mark saw Jo Derby look at him out of the corner of her eyes, though she continued to press forwards. They were now approaching the feral mobs that were attracted to the periphery of Grimstone's events.

He knew exactly what she was now thinking and agreed with her. Mind control was what Grimstone's church was all about.

She added: ‘Well, certainly these people – these so-called Razzamatazzers, and the Skulls too, even the paramilitaries – appear to have lost any sense of moral compass. They don't care about what was socially unacceptable just yesterday. They're prepared to kill with impunity. They die themselves, as we have seen, and still they just don't appear to care. That's worrying.'

Was Jo allowing him some insight into the thinking of his presumed higher authority?

Although they had no idea whether or not Grimstone would be able to detect them, Mark and Nan had decided that it was best to suppress their oracula entirely while they were attending the meeting.

As they approached the arena Mark saw that Jo's presumption was confirmed: it was a place of pilgrimage for the Razzers. So many of the surrounding streets had been gutted that it suggested a deliberate, ruthless planning. As far as he could make out, the entire periphery of Wembley for a distance of several hundred yards, had degenerated into shanties and hovels teeming with thugs: the Razzers had created their own wasteland in the ruins.
It was similar to what had happened in the city of Isscan on Tír, and Mark wondered if it was in Grimstone's interest to encourage this ruin. His flock could then contrast the orderliness of his services with the anarchy that surrounded them.

They followed the faithful into the arena, gaining entrance without any difficulty. The stadium was approaching full – over 90,000 souls. At the centre of the grassy oval of what had, until recently, been a national football arena, Mark saw two senior church figures – deacons or dignitaries of some sort – wearing white togas with hoods pulled forward over their faces. There must have been several hundred in the larger, outer crescent. He wondered if Grimstone's wife, and his own adoptive mother, Bethal, was among them.

‘Why the cowls?' He spoke quietly to Jo.

‘Presumably they don't want to be identified. There's a great deal of secrecy to the inner workings of the New Islington Church. We believe that they include eminent military representatives, politicians and billionaire businessmen.'

Mark had caught the expression, ‘
We believe
…'

‘Impressive.'

‘Your adoptive father is nothing if not charismatic.'

Mark thought again about what Jo had said before: was that what Grimstone was after –
mind control?

In the inner crescent, closer to the speaker's podium, a smaller cluster of figures, probably all men, were robed and cowled in black.
If Grimstone's church is global
, Mark
thought,
are they the equivalent of archbishops – leaders of the overseas branches?

An uncowled choir of men and women dressed in flowing robes of powder blue filled a sector of the stands. They rose to their feet and sang a hymn that Mark recognised from many makeshift church meetings he had been dragged to by Grimstone:
Soldiers of the New Risen Christ
. A deacon climbed onto the podium and spoke before the table being used as an altar. At its centre was a plinth bearing a twisted cross.

‘What avails a world that has descended into the adoration of Mammon and machines?'

In unison the crowd responded, ‘Nothing.'

‘Behold,' he spoke, ‘he comes with clouds, and every eye shall see him. And all kindreds of the Earth shall wail because of him.'

Jo whispered: ‘From the Book of Revelation.'

‘I am alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. I am what is, and what was, and that which will come to be.'

The audience roared, ‘Amen!'

Mark wondered about the apocalyptic tenor of the words. Whatever was being proclaimed as coming, he very much doubted that it was the risen Christ. Was Grimstone referring to himself, to the triumph of his rising church – or to something else entirely?

The choir sang again, a rousing hymn about cleansing fire, and the hope and certainty of the new world that would follow. As they sang Grimstone made his entrance, emerging into the arena from the tunnel out of which football
teams once appeared. He strolled forward with a confident step to climb the podium and take his place before the cluster of microphones. He was dressed in a dove grey linen suit over a black silk shirt, with a white dog collar. His long black hair was neatly coiffured and streaked with grey. The blue of his eyes shone like lasers over the huge expectant congregation.

A woman began screaming hysterically. Mark caught the words, ‘Where's my son?'

Grimstone waved to the stewards to bring her forward. She was ushered down one of the radial aisles and brought over the central oval to the podium, where Grimstone dismissed the stewards. He took the woman's face in his hands and spoke softly to her, but his words, of course, were carried by the microphones.

‘Blessed are they who mourn' – the crowd rippled – ‘for they will be comforted.'

The woman collapsed into Grimstone's arms.

Mark whispered to Jo, ‘Looks contrived.'

‘Oh, I think it's more ambitious than that. Grimstone is setting himself up at the very least as a prophet.'

It was hard for Mark to see the violent bully he recalled from his previous home life in this gentle pastor with the caressing arms and the greying hair. Grimstone waved at the stewards to come and help the woman back to her seat. ‘Take care of this troubled soul. Treat her gently. Show her the comfort of grace.'

Mark sensed a contagion of adoration running through
the crowds. He saw it move through their postures, the expression on their faces.

Grimstone addressed the congregation again. ‘This unfortunate soul is not alone. Many are lost. I wandered this confused world for a generation and everywhere I encountered the same desolation of spirit, the human soil waiting for the seed of redemption. We need only look around ourselves in this stadium, or further to the streets of this great city, to witness it day by day: the cancer of despair in the hearts of decent men and women and the fear that comes with a world that has lost its way. Is it any wonder they feel abandoned?'

Shouts from the crowd, ‘No, Lord!'

‘Blessed are the peacemakers.'

‘For they shall be called the Children of God!'

Grimstone lifted the cross from its plinth, brought it to his brow and then to his lips, so he could kiss it. Mark had seen him kiss the same twisted cross many times during his services, in houses seconded as makeshift churches. But the cross was not a cross at all. It was a dagger with part of the matte black spiral blade broken off. The top limb of the cross was actually its hilt, with the glowing sigil of the triple infinity embedded in it. The memory of the dagger-cross was so stark, so creepy, that Mark could smell the sulphurous stink of burning as the glowing sigil made contact with Grimstone's lips. He felt the enormous wave of power that radiated out from the distant grey-suited figure and the dagger he was holding to his mouth. It was vastly
more powerful than he recalled. He wondered if this came from the proximity of the Sword.

Mark felt what the congregation felt: the desire to offer oneself to this man who wielded so much power. He felt the thrill of being consumed and becoming part of the greater whole. The rapture.

The figures that Jo believed were high-ranking military, the civic leaders and the billionaire businessmen, all knelt before Grimstone with deeply bowed heads. Mark could see how the vast gathering had been enchanted, lost in the rapture of Grimstone's promises, their eyes glazed.

Mark's eyes met Nan's. ‘Do you feel it too?'

She nodded. ‘It's as if an oraculum has opened.'

Grimstone replaced the dagger on its plinth. He addressed the multitude, his arms widespread. ‘I thank you all for coming here. Look around you when you leave. You, my beloved brethren, have been brought close to the lost on your journeys here. Please do not abandon these unfortunates, who merit and need our help.'

This charitable sentiment evoked a muted applause.

‘As unto the angel of Ephesus, I say to you: I know how you have laboured, I know your dedication, what you have endured in holiness and patience and all that you have borne for the sake of goodness and kindness. Yet you have still offered charity in hard circumstances of crime and poverty. I thank you for your generosity from the bottom of my heart.'

The applause thundered out again. Mark was impressed.
Grimstone was capable of manipulating the mood of his entire flock on a whim.

‘We look with new eyes on this harried country and this great city – this city we all love – and what need do we see?'

The crowd intoned, ‘Be watchful and make strong the things that remain, those of us who are ready to die, for they are not perfect before our God!'

Grimstone picked up the twisted cross again and held it once again to his brow. Mark felt another wave of rapture pass out through the multitude. He whispered to Nan, ‘Where's the Sword?'

Nan shook her head. ‘I don't know.'

It was difficult to think clearly through the noise of over 90,000 voices raised in acclamation.

‘What if Grimstone doesn't fully understand how to use the Sword?' she asked.

‘It might explain the need to question Padraig.' Mark nodded. ‘But, from what I know of Padraig, he wouldn't give in – not even if it cost him his life. He was a cantankerous old devil. He'd likely hold out.'

‘If you're right, his cantankerous nature might have kept him alive.'

‘I really hope so.'

Mark thought back to the Tube tunnel after they had rescued Jo from the lecture. They had sensed a great power somewhere underground and had reached the same conclusion: it had to be the Sword.

Somewhere underground
.

And, if he was right in his thinking, all they had to do was to find the Sword and Padraig wouldn't be far away.

Nan whispered, ‘But we still don't know what Grimstone is planning.'

‘I'd say something big.'