by Phil Rickman
‘He’s in there with—?’
‘Chained and padlocked himself in. He won’t talk to us. He’s just rambling. To someone else? To himself? I don’t know. Rambling on and on. Neither of us understands, but I just… well, I rather suspected you might. It’s all… it’s rather frightening, actually.’
‘So there is a’ – Merrily swallowed – ‘a Deliverance context?’
What a stupid question.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sophie said, ‘I think so. Don’t you?’
George Curtiss shuffled impatiently. ‘I trust we can, ah, rely on your discretion, Mrs Watkins. I know he’s an odd character, but I do have a long-standing admiration for the man. As does… as does the Dean.’
‘But I don’t know him. I’ve never even spoken to him.’
‘He’s, ah, had his problems,’ George said. ‘Feels rather beleaguered – threatened by… by certain recent developments. In view of these, we’d rather avoid involving the Dean – or the Bishop – at this stage.’
‘But I don’t know him. And he—’
‘But you know what he does, Merrily,’ Sophie whispered urgently.
‘Do I?’
‘Mrs Watkins.’ George Curtis coughed. ‘We all know what he does, if not the, ah, technicalities of it. It’s just we’re a little nervous about what’s… going on in there.’
‘You want me to try and talk to him?’
‘Just listen, I suppose.’ Sophie tightened her scarf. ‘Interpret for us.’
‘My Latin isn’t what it used to be,’ George said.
‘Latin?’
George dragged a long breath through the brambles of his beard, but his voice still came out weakly. ‘My impression is he’s talking to, ah… to, ah… to St Thomas.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Merrily said.
Sophie almost snapped at her, ‘You think we do?’
They followed George Curtiss and his torch around the building to St John’s door, which was used mainly by the clergy and the vergers. Snow was already spattered up the nearby walls.
‘We’ll go in very quietly,’ George said, as though addressing a party of schoolchildren – he was one of the regular tourguides, Merrily recalled. ‘I sometimes think the Dean has ultrasonic hearing.’
Merrily stepped warily inside – as if a mad-eyed Dobbs might come rampaging at them, swinging his crucifix.
Drunk? If Dobbs had a drink problem, it was the first she’d heard about it. But if the old exorcist had become a public embarrassment, the Dean could no longer be seen to support him. That way the Dean would himself lose face. And if the Bishop found out, he would make the most of it – in the most discreet way, of course – to strengthen his position as an engine of reform, get rid of Dobbs, and perhaps the Dean as well.
Can of worms!
Although it felt no warmer inside, Merrily unzipped her waxed coat and put a hand to the bump in her sweater, her pectoral cross.
This was because the atmosphere in the Cathedral was different.
Live?
Sophie touched her arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Merrily remembered reading once that gothic churches somehow recharged themselves at night, like battery packs. She felt again the powerful inner call to prayer she’d experienced on the afternoon she’d emerged from the shell-like chantry to encounter Dobbs and the woman.
‘I won’t put on any lights,’ George whispered. ‘Don’t want to draw undue, ah… attention.’
He snapped off his torch for a moment. The only illumination now was the little aumbry light over the cupboard holding the emergency sacrament: wine and wafers in a silver container. Merrily felt a desperate, vibrating desire to kneel before it.
There was no sound at all.
‘All right.’ George switched on his torch again, and they followed its bobbing beam through the Lady Chapel and into the North Transept, where the great stained-glass window reared over the temporary screening partition hiding the dismantled tomb of St Thomas Cantilupe. George shone his torch over the various posters drawing-pinned to it, telling the story of Cantilupe – a wise and caring bishop, according to the Cathedral guidebook, who stood firm against evil in all its guises.
George stopped and called out harshly, ‘Thomas?’ as though he hadn’t intended to – as though the word had been wrenched out of him.
Merrily quivered for an instant.
Thomas? – as if he was summoning the spirit of Cantilupe.
He might as well have been. There was no response.
Merrily looked at Sophie. ‘You’re sure he’s still…?’
George moved across and shone his torch on the plywood partition door. Merrily remembered a padlocked chain connecting steel staples on the outside.
‘All this will be taken down quite soon,’ George said. ‘They’re putting the tomb back together next week.’
The chain appeared to have been dragged inside through a half-inch crack between the ill-fitting door and its frame. Dobbs – or someone else – had to be still behind it.
Merrily said, ‘Do you feel anything?’
‘I feel quite annoyed, actually,’ Sophie muttered. ‘Why isn’t he doing… what he was doing earlier? You’ll think we only dragged you here on a such a dreadful night on some sort of perverse whim.’
‘No. The atmosphere, Sophie – the atmosphere’s somehow… I don’t know… disarranged.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been in here at night before. Not like this, anyway.’
She had a feeling of overhead cables cut, slashed through. Of them hanging down now, still live and dangerous.
‘Thomas?’ George rapped on the plywood door. ‘Thomas, it’s George. Getting a bit anxious about you, old chap.’
‘Something’s happened,’ Merrily said suddenly. ‘Can you break it down?’
‘Thomas!’ George slapped the partition with a leather-gloved hand. ‘Are you there?’
‘Break it down!’
He swung round. ‘This is a cathedral, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Maybe you can snap the chain?’
‘I can’t even reach the chain.’
‘Kick the door.’
‘I… I can’t.’
Merrily hurriedly unzipped her coat and slipped out of it. ‘Stand back, then. I’ll do it.’
‘No, I… Thomas! For God’s sake!’ George put an ear to the crack between the door and the frame. ‘Stop… wait… I can hear…’
Merrily went still.
‘I can hear him breathing,’ George said. ‘Can you hear that?’
She turned her back to the plywood screen, steadying her own breathing. She rubbed her eyes. Think practically, think rationally. When she turned back, both George and Sophie were staring at her. And the air in the high transept was still invisibly untidy with snipped wires.
‘All right.’ Big George began to unbutton his overcoat. ‘I’ll do it.
He wore fat, black boots. Doc Martens probably, size eleven at least. With equipment like that, he could bring the whole damned partition crashing down.
He gave Merrily the rubber-covered torch, which felt moist. By its light, she saw that his brown eyes were wide and scared, and a froth of spittle glistened in his beard.
‘Christ be with us,’ Merrily heard herself saying.
19
Costume Drama
SIREN WARBLING, BLUE beacons strobing – violently beautiful over the snow – the ambulance broke the rules by cutting from Broad Street across the Cathedral Green.
Merrily stood outside St John’s door with Sophie. Feeling useless.
Even in his condition, Dobbs had reared up from the stones at the sight of her, one arm hanging limp, and his face like a waxwork melting down one side. George Curtiss had then taken charge, suggesting she and Sophie should phone for help from the office in the gatehouse.
Merrily had glanced back once before they hurried away, and had seen George fumbling at the wall under the aumbry light.
‘The sacrament.’ Sophie had started to shake. ‘Oh, dear God, he’s asked for the sacrament.’
Merrily wasn’t sure Dobbs had been in any condition, at the time, to voice a request; this was probably George’s own decision. Probably a wise one.
She and Sophie stood back while the paramedics brought the old man out. Multiple headlights creaming the snow and more people gathering – one of the vergers, a couple of policemen.
And the Right Reverend Michael Hunter loping towards them. The Bishop in a purple tracksuit.
‘Merrily, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘Michael, I sent for her,’ Sophie explained at once. ‘I thought—’
‘That’s good,’ the Bishop said. ‘That’s fine. Entirely appropriate.’
Summoned from his bed, no doubt, by the ambulance siren, he seemed neither cold nor tired. Merrily could almost see his athlete’s glow as an actual halo as he raised a palm over the two women, like a blessing.
‘Poor Canon Dobbs,’ Sophie said.
The Bishop nodded. ‘A good and distinguished servant of God.’
Huh? Merrily recalled their discussion in the Green Dragon. ‘The old man’s ubiquitous. Hovering silently, like some dark, malign spectre. I’d like to… I want to exorcize Dobbs.’
Classic episcopal hypocrisy.
‘But he worked himself too hard – and for too long,’ the Bishop said. ‘A stroke, I gather.’
‘Yes,’ Merrily said, ‘that’s what it looks like.’
‘No!’ Cool, efficient Sophie started to cry. ‘Two strokes. It must have been two, don’t you see? We thought he must be… must have been drinking. When we heard his voice all slurred, in fact he was simply struggling to speak after a first stroke – probably only a minor one. And then… I remember my father… Oh God, how stupid we were, how utterly thoughtless.’
‘Sophie,’ Merrily said, ‘if it wasn’t for you, he might still be lying there.’
‘Perhaps it was us shouting at him to come out… perhaps all the fuss threw him into some sort of confused panic and that was what brought on the second stroke.’
‘Sophie, listen.’ The Bishop took his secretary by both shoulders, then eased back her scarf so as to look into her eyes. ‘We all knew that Thomas was long, long overdue for retirement. His particular ministry put him under enormous pressure. Several of us, as you know, tried very hard to persuade him to give it up. I think it was becoming explicitly clear to everyone that this good man’s mind was breaking down. Hey, watch yourself…’
He guided Sophie out of the path of the ambulance as it started up, preparing to bear the stricken Dobbs to the General Hospital. George Curtiss appeared from behind it, breathing hard through his beard.
‘Bishop…’
‘Well done, George.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t do enough.’
‘I’m sure you did everything humanly possible,’ Mick Hunter said – then, after a pause, ‘except to inform your bishop.’
‘Oh, yes. I, ah, thought… hoped… that it wouldn’t be necessary to involve you – or the Dean.’
‘I want to be appraised of everything, George. You won’t forget that again, will you?’
‘No.’ The big canon, a good ten years older than the Bishop, looked like a chastized schoolboy. ‘I’m sorry, Bishop.’
‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Merrily—’
‘Bishop?’ She was annoyed at the way he’d spoken to George, who’d administered the sacrament to Dobbs, stayed with him, tried to make him comfortable, keep him calm.
The Bishop said, ‘What was Canon Dobbs actually doing when you found him?’
‘He was having a stroke, Bishop,’ Merrily said wearily.
Mick Hunter was silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s been a difficult night.’
‘Has it? I see. I’ll talk to you on Monday, Merrily. This is obviously going to have a bearing on your situation.’ He turned and walked towards the Cathedral.
‘I thought for a moment he was going to say something about God moving in mysterious ways,’ Merrily muttered, ‘to clear the way for the new regime.’
‘He’s wearing trainers,’ Sophie said absently. ‘His poor feet must be absolutely soaked.’
‘Wellies wouldn’t fit the image.’
‘He’s more than image, Merrily,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘I think you know that. He’s a very young man. One day he’ll be a great man, I should think.’
One day he’ll probably be an archbishop, Merrily thought. But I doubt he’ll be a great man.
But she’d said enough.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Sophie said, ‘though clearly it wasn’t a terribly good idea.’
‘Sophie…’ Merrily glanced over her shoulder at the Cathedral, which – although someone, probably the Bishop, had put on lights – was still not the imagined beacon of old Christian warmth, not now. ‘When George said Dobbs was talking to Thomas Cantilupe, what did he mean by that?’
Sophie appeared uncomfortable. ‘Does that matter now?’
‘Yeah, I think it does.’
‘That was George’s surmise. I thought he was talking to himself. Thomas, you see – both of them Thomases. It was as though he… perhaps he was already feeling ill and he was urging himself to hold on.’
‘What were his words?’
‘Well, like that. He did actually say that at least once: “Please God, hold on, Thomas.” And then he’d lapse into mumbling Latin.’
‘How did he get in? Does he have keys?’
‘He must have.’
‘Does he often come here alone at night?’
‘It…’ Sophie sighed. ‘So they say.’
‘What else do they say?’
‘They say he has rather an obsession with St Thomas Cantilupe. I do know he studied the medieval Church, so perhaps he sought some sort of deeper communion with the saint, on a spiritual level. I don’t like to—’
‘You mean because the tomb was lying open, for the first time in over a century, he thought the saint would be more accessible? You have to help me here, Sophie. I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Sophie said. ‘I don’t feel it’s right to talk about it now, with the poor man probably dying. I mean, George gave him the sacrament.’
‘Sophie, just let me get this right. Are you saying you called me in because you and George thought Canon Dobbs was attempting to make contact with a dead saint?’
‘I don’t know, Merrily.’ Sophie was wringing the ends of her scarf. ‘Look, I just wanted to protect… Oh, I don’t know who I wanted to protect. The Bishop? Canon Dobbs? Or just the Cathedral? In the end it all comes back to the Cathedral, doesn’t it? I…’ She stamped a booted foot on the snow as if to emphasize it to herself. ‘I work for the Cathedral.’
‘Is there something… is there a problem in the Cathedral? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
Maybe she should talk to George, who was still with the two policemen beside their car at the roadside.
‘Can we talk about this… again?’ Sophie said.
‘If I’m going to help, you’ve got to trust me.’
‘I do trust you, Merrily. That’s why I telephoned for you. And I feel guilty now – you look so awfully tired. Do you really have to drive back? The roads are going to be dreadful.’
‘No worse than when I came. I think the snow’s stopping anyway.’
‘But it’ll probably freeze on top. That’s rather treacherous – and it’s always a little warmer in the city. Look, why don’t you stay with us tonight? We always keep a room prepared, and Andrew will have hot chocolate ready.’
‘Well, thanks. But there’s Jane at home. And tomorrow’s services.’
‘I do feel so guilty about bringing you here.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t fall asleep at the wheel. I’ll smoke.’
‘Hmm,’ Sophie said disapprovingly.
‘Good nigh
t, Sophie.’
Watching Sophie walk away towards warmth and hot chocolate, Merrily felt damp and chilled inside her thinning fake-Barbour. She saw the police car pulling away into Broad Street, and George Curtiss had already gone.
Fatigue had induced detachment. She didn’t want to be detached. She remembered how, when she and Sophie and George had first entered the Cathedral tonight, the urge to pray had washed over her like surf, a tide of need. Dobbs’s need?
That had gone now; her prayers weren’t needed – or not so urgently. She ought to have obeyed that call, fallen to her knees, and the whole bit.
Bloody Anglican reserve. The Church of the Stiff Upper Lip.
Abruptly, Merrily went back into the Cathedral, to pray for Dobbs, before it was all locked up again. Knowing she would make for the place where George had kicked down a partition door: the Cantilupe fragments.
What did she know about Cantilupe? Bishop of Hereford in the late thirteenth century. Born into a wealthy Norman baronial family. Educated for the Church. A political career before he came to Hereford in middle age, in the reign of Edward I. A row with the Archbishop of Canterbury which got him excommunicated. Reinstatement, then death, then sainthood. Then the miracles, dozens of miracles around the shrine: the tomb that no longer had a body in it, and that was now in pieces.
The aumbry light still shone: a relic of the medieval Church, seldom needed now. Tonight another medieval relic had required the last rites.
Merrily realized she very much did not want Dobbs to die. She went down on her knees, on the hard coldness, before the aumbry light itself. Let him live. Please God, let him survive. Build some kind of bridge between us. Throw down some quiet light. Let there be…
Useless, incoherent – she was just too tired. She couldn’t find the words to explain herself.
‘Merrily.’
She opened her eyes.
‘I’m sorry I was so abrupt, Merrily. It wasn’t you – it was me, I’m sorry. I felt excluded.’
The late-night DJ voice, resonant, burnt-umber. She should have realized he’d still be here. Perhaps she had.
‘Hello, Mick.’
The Bishop extended a hand. He was very strong, and suddenly she was on her feet again.
