She accelerated along the deserted street, and around a corner. “Oh my Lord!” The car squealed to a halt.
The Mercedes was blocking the slip-road to freedom. Jones was leaning on it, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette. He gave her a friendly wave, and began to walk towards the car. She tried to reverse, turned the wheel the wrong way, and jammed her car against a set of bollards. The man was almost upon her. There was no time to work out one of her multi-point turns. She abandoned the vehicle, engine still running, and made a break for it, dashing into an alleyway. The hood followed her at a steady loping gait. Ankerita’s legs gave way. The exertion of the climb, and the terrors of the drive had taken their toll. As she collapsed, she stupidly thought to herself. “Must remember to eat, next time.”
9. Sanctuary
A
nkerita lay, panting, on the pavement. As Jones strolled up, she rolled over to glare defiantly into his brutal face.
“Good to see you again, miss,” he said, politely. “The governors have missed you.”
“Leave me alone,” she spat, trying to rise.
“Let me help.” The hood bent to put his hand under Ankerita’s shoulder. “Don’t tax yourself. You’ll need all your energy for later.”
She managed to land a kick on his ankles as she struggled feebly. His expression changed. He collapsed moaning, blood splattering his face.
Ankerita stared. “I didn’t strike that hard. Are the spirits back with me? Is that what I heard earlier?”
A shadow fell on her. “Are ye okay, girl?”
She shook her head, and with difficulty recognised the tramp she had befriended when they shared a squat. “George?” This time though, he was not a tramp, he was a respectable man, stocky and well-groomed. He wiped his fist on the hood’s jacket.
“Ah thought ah might need ma dusters some time.” He grinned. “Gimme ye’r hand.”
“What?” Ankerita struggled upright.
“Knuckle-dusters.” George proudly showed her the steel and jewelled decoration across his fingers.
“You hit him with that?”
“Aye, ah couldn’a let him hit me first, now could ah? Him probably bein’ a trained fighter an’ all. Hold on to me.” He lifted her to her feet. “You’re like a feather. When did ye last eat something wholesome?”
“Can't’ remember, but I am so glad to see you.” She gave him a weak hug. “You saved my life.”
“Aye, weel we’re even. You saved ma life, when the squat blew up, and you showed me where t’ find the treasure. Come on, before his mates turn up.” He put his arm around her waist to support her and they staggered towards Ankerita’s car. “Ye’d better let me drive. Get in.” He opened the passenger door and helped the girl into the seat. “Put ya seatbelt on, Caileag. We don’t want to break the law, do we?”
“Apart from using those duster things.” Ankerita tried to calm herself. “Good, my bag is still in here.”
There was a shout from behind. Two men were pelting towards them.
“Time tae go.” George revved the engine. “They say tha’ in the films, the noo.”
He drove straight up over the earth bank at the side of the road and down again behind the Mercedes. “Ah’ll gie us some distance before ah slow down.” He peeked into the mirror. “Ah think we’re away.”
“But how did you find me?”
“Ah’ll tell ye when we’re safe. Ah need to concentrate on not hitting anythin’.”
“George, it is lovely to see you again.” Ankerita eventually got her breath back, “but I need you to do me one simple favour.”
“Aye, anythin’. Wha’ll it be, lassie?”
“Will you stop talking in your ‘street’ accent. This is me, Anna, you are talking to. You don’t need to pretend.”
“Of course.” George looked sheepish. “The theatrical accent becomes a habit when I’m begging. Sometimes I forget to switch back into ‘business’ mode.”
“That’s better. I can understand you now.” Ankerita looked blankly out of the window. “Where are we going?”
“Sanctuary.”
George drove Ankerita’s car into a run-down housing estate. This was not what she had expected. Now that she was away from the thugs, she had time to worry about other things. Had she escaped from one danger to find herself in another? Was George all he seemed? She barely knew him. She put her hand into her bag and took hold of the tommy-bar. He seemed to sense her unease.
“Don’t worry, Caileag. We’re going in here, because the Polies fear to tread. I’ve got a house where you can stay. You’ll be safe there.”
“That’s very kind,” vacillated Ankerita, “but aren’t they watching everything these days? I need to keep away from all the cameras.”
“No cameras here.” He indicated a paint-splattered telegraph-pole. “Every time the council puts one up, we make sure it gets destroyed. You’ve heard of ‘paint-balling’?”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“Not really.” George smiled. “A load of grown-up guys run round a forest, playing ‘Twats and Terrorists’. They use guns firing paint pellets. We nicked a few, and they are perfect for blinding the cameras, and for getting a bit of target practice in. We are not having the council’s lackeys watching us wherever we go.”
“We? Who are ‘we’?”
“I suppose, me really,” George confessed. “They shouldn’a left those electric spyglasses lying aboot. Ah, here is ma’ town estate.” The car pulled into the driveway of a shabby detached house. “Ah’ll let the pixies know I’m here.”
“Pixies?”
“The door pixies.” George chuckled. He brought a small control box out of his pocket, and the garage door opened automatically in front of them. “There ye go—magic in a box.” He drove the car inside, and the door closed behind them. Ankerita began to fret. The garage was dark. She felt trapped again.
“Come on,” said George, getting out of the car. “I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve got some provisions in. You look like you could do with something tae eat.”
“You’ve hidden the car.” Ankerita was becoming increasingly alarmed about what George might have planned for her. After all, she only met him in a group of down-and-outs earlier that year, and he was bordering on ‘foul’ even then. All they actually had in common was the fact they were the survivors of a gas explosion which destroyed their house and killed many of their fellow squatters.
“Aye, I have hidden it,” agreed George. “Dinna worry. I’ve got two good reasons for ye: one, that if the thugs after you come past, they’ll see it. You might as well put out a big sign saying, ‘Come in an’ get me.’”
“And the other?”
“This is the sort of area that you might find your tyres stolen, along with the rest of the car, and possibly most of the garden. It’s best kept out of sight, nothing more sinister than that. Ye don’t need to worry. Stop shaking like a scared rabbit, and come through into the kitchen. You’re safe, and this is your house now. You can stay as long as you like.”
“You are very kind.” Ankerita followed him uncertainly. “Why are you doing this for me?”
“You have a book in your bag... A very old book.”
“Oh yes?” Ankerita collapsed into a chair as George flicked the kettle on. He waited until it had boiled, and poured the water on teabags in two mugs before continuing.
“It’s an important book,” he said. “I was told that last night. I was sleeping at the shop, as I sometimes do when I’m begging in the City...”
“You are still begging? I thought you were rich?”
“I am, after finding all those gold coins; treasure-trove they called it, and that was a lot of money. I went to work for the charity shop, like you suggested, and it was such a poke that I offered to manage it for them. I get a wee salary from that too. I still go out on the streets, on nice days only, mind you, just to keep ma hand in, and tell more of those jokes. They keep coming to me, an’ people seem t
o like them.” He fished out the teabags and flicked them into a bin under the sink.
“That’s how you made your original income.” Ankerita watched, as George added milk, stirred in two spoons of sugar, and handed her a mug. “Ah’ll tell ye a joke f’ra fiver...” she mimicked his accent. “Do you still do that?”
“It’s ma life, pet.” He grinned. “Now, I’ve got pizza. I’ll pop one in the microwave. It’ll be ready before you’ve finished y’r tea. How does that sound?” He began to strip the many layers of wrapping from the item. “Bloody pointless packaging,” he muttered. “How’s the tea?”
“Divine,” said Ankerita, as the warmth of the drink started to flow into her. “And this is your house, is it?” She looked around the kitchen.
“Not exactly,” said George, as he set the timer.
“Ah.” Ankerita grinned. “Are we squatting again... and do you really do pizza in a microwave?”
“Och no,” said George lapsing briefly into his pretend accent, “but it’s quick, and I’m no’ squatting in this house. The charity I work for supports orphanages in former Soviet-Bloc countries. There is a cartel of foreign businessmen, who help to finance it, and they own this place.”
“That sounds a bit suspicious. I thought they were always killing each other out there.”
“I truly believe they are sorry for everything that has happened.” George watched the countdown on the microwave. “They have the money, and they are spending some of it to provide for the children that they personally helped to turn into orphans during the wars.”
“And the shop?”
“We support them from the UK. They used to help to arrange adoptions over here and America, but that was banned a few years back by some useless do-gooders, simply because some of the lads were abusing the system.” He said the last part of the sentence in a whining voice. “Do-gooders; stupid ninnies, they need a rod up their bahookies. Now everyone suffers; kids don’t get homes, childless couples don’t get bairns to love.” He paused. “Sorry, it’s something close to ma heart. I’ll tell ye sometime. Without that income, they can always use extra funds, and we do our best to help the kids from here, you know, sending toys and clothes and stuff.”
“Hmmm,” said Ankerita. “And they are legitimate?”
“They pay ma salary.”
“As to the house, you said we aren’t squatting?”
“No, Milady,” said George. “I am house-sitting.”
“So, you are squatting?”
George grinned. “Foreigners are buying places over here as investments. The theory is that this area will get a makeover eventually, and the price of property will rocket. Until that time, they pay people like me to live in them, keep them in good order, and stop down-and-outs from taking over. They pay all the bills, and might visit once in a while, to make sure that the property isn’t being abused.”
“And if it is?”
“Ya dinna mess wid doze guys,” George said, in a mock American gangster accent.
“Now there’s a thought,” said Ankerita.
“What?”
“I’ve been having trouble with some sort of mob. I wonder if your contacts could help.” She spluttered into her tea. “Unless they are the people who are after me.”
“Dinna worry. I think they like to keep out of local disputes,” George assured her. “It’s not good for the image.”
“I suppose so. How long have you got this house for?”
“Until the area is ‘regenerated’. That’s why you are welcome to stay. The place is like a fortress; it has to be out here in the Wild East. Your ‘friends’ will never find you. It’ll be good for me too.”
“How so?” asked Ankerita.
“I can go and visit ma family, without worrying about leaving the house empty. You’ll be doing me a favour keeping an eye on it for me. In return, you get free lodging, food and warmth... and safety. How does that sound?”
“And my own room?”
“Of course. I’m a married man.” George pretended to look shocked.
“Yes.” Ankerita shot him a quick glance, but he set to rummaging in one of the cupboards. The microwave bleeped. George opened the door, burning his fingers on melted cheese inside. He slid the pizza on to a tray and came to sit at the table with her.
“There you go, Caileag. It might be a bit warm.” He sucked his hand.
“What’s all this ‘Caileag’ stuff?”
“Sorry, Lassie, but if I call you ‘lassie’, it sounds like you’re a dog. Caileag means the same, only in Gaelic.”
“Woof woof.” Ankerita sniffed hungrily at the food. “Can I start? I need this. Tell me though, I’m wondering, how on earth did you know where I was? You can’t have turned up by chance.”
“I wondered when you’d get round to asking that. No, it wasn’t chance, it was a starved-looking red-headed gal...”
“Was it now?”
“Ay, I was kipping in the back of the shop, and there she was, standing right beside me, totally with nae clothes on.”
“I’ve heard men have dreams like that.”
George glared at her. “I said... well, I’ll not tell you exactly what I said, but I did enquire as to what she was doing in the storeroom. If ye’re out tae rob me, I’ve got nothing, I tells her, but if it’s ma body ye want, it be all yours.
“So, she looks at me kinda strangely, and says, Lady Ankerita needs your help, and she has the Book of Ghosts. I want it back.
“So, I says, Who the f**k is Lady Ankerita? (pardon ma vernacular, Hen.)
“You know her as Anna, says the wench. She will need your help tomorrow. Take your weapons. There are evil men, who mean her great harm. And then she points out this wee ball of glass we had in our display cabinet. Tells me it acts like a sat-nav to track you down. I should peer into it, and see exactly where you were. Real strange I’d never noticed it before. It worked a treat, though. I could see you were in real trouble. Nice one on sorting that photographer, by the way.”
“He deserved it. Did this woman mention her name?”
“It was something like Jeanette Celandine,” said George, “but I knew she wasn’t actually there. Like I knew those people from the squat weren’t there. I can tell now. Same as I can see that you have a kind of purple glow around you. Hers was deep red, almost too dark to see. Wish a could remember her name.”
“Genet of Siwaldston?” Ankerita spoke slowly, wracking her memories from the abbey. “There was much village talk of this lady, and her relations with some of the clergy.”
“Aye, that might be it.”
“She was supposed to be a witch.”
“Apart from needing a square meal, she looked okay to me; quite modern wi’ all that hair. Aren’t witches supposed to have broomsticks and warty noses?”
“Only in fairy-tales.” Ankerita laughed, starting to feel more comfortable. She watched as George busied around the kitchen finding plates and cutlery, and then observed, “You’ll make someone a fair wife one day.”
The man gave her a hurt look.
“And what happened to this glass ball?”
“Ah don’t know. I think ah might ha’ lost it when I rescued you.”
“Shame. It could have been useful.” She watched George cutting the pizza. “That looks terrible. Didn’t you ever learn to cook?”
“Never needed to,” he said. “I’ve got ma family up north. The wench does that when I’m there.”
“Wench? You have servants?”
“Nay, ah mean ma wife, good lady—puts up wi’ ma travels, and looks after the bairns. We have three. Ah bring in enough money with ma jobs here to keep them comfortable. Ah was able to buy our house with the treasure reward. Why should ah need to cook?”
“I’m only joking.” Ankerita chuckled. “Please carry on; I’m starving. Give me the knife if you can’t manage to cut the pizza.”
George continued sawing away at the rubbery mess, “I kne
w this Jeanette was something different, especially when she melted in front of ma eyes.”
“The dissolving would be a clue.”
“But I knew I couldn’a let you down. I got ma dusters, caught a bus and... here you are.”
“And so grateful.” Ankerita patted his hand. “You’ve saved my life. Have you finished destroying the food yet? I am desperate to eat.”
10. In the Night
Spring 1530
B
rother Francis was getting old. Despite his condition, he felt aches and pains beyond his age. In actual years, he was only in his thirties, but he looked and felt himself to be a very old man.
Unseen, he had watched the new marker stone put in place on Ankerita’s grave. They had deliberately not carved her face: left it blank. Had they forgotten what she looked like? Francis could not forget. The hauntingly beautiful features were still there, imprinted on his mind. As time went on, she could only become more beautiful to him. So why did they leave the stone blank? Francis wondered if it was something to do with the spell that bound her.
Being in a different reality himself, Francis tried to contact his lady, but she was either in a deep sleep, or she had passed beyond where he was balanced, somewhere between life and the next world. He had occasional glimpses of the demon still haunting the abbey, and by that, Francis knew that the lady was still within reach, somewhere. He tried to catch the spectre, but Didiubas seemed more intent on causing mayhem, and avoided talking to him. Already, the demon had caused the sheriff to uncover wrongdoings that ensured Abbot Hunt had been deposed, and the prior, Thomas Corveser, was in charge. Corveser was a stickler for routine and correctness, which pleased the demon as he watched the canons suffer under routines almost forgotten.
Under the new abbot, the abbey tithes were not being misdirected; the income was being used for improving and repairing the buildings. The abbey treasures were reinstated, and the canons spent most of the day toiling and complaining. The worst for them, although they dared not admit it, was that the village wenches were banned from entering the property. This was a return to the old days.
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