“Are you alright?” he asked, worried at how frail she seemed.
Alex nodded, head against his chest. “I think so. I just cut my finger; there was something sharp on the wall.” Her voice grew small as she went on, “You know I don’t like blood.”
Brother Saul was there in an instant. “You were cut? Let me see.” He grabbed her hand, examining her finger. The firelight illuminated a faint tracery of white lines on her arm, and Saul hissed. “What is this?”
Alex drew it back, embarrassed and a little frightened. “It’s fine, Brother. Please don’t worry.” She drew a tissue out of her jacket pocket and wrapped it around her finger, burying her hand in her pocket. “What are the things embedded in the bricks out there?”
Saul stood back, and didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes strayed to the picture behind Mark, then quickly away as he felt Mark watching. “They are part of this place’s history, that’s all.”
“Yes, but what are they?” Alex persisted.
“They are bones.”
Mark was aghast. “Bones? In the walls? What kind of bones?”
This time Saul looked directly at him. “Human.” He pushed Alex, gently, towards the fire. “Please, warm yourself. I will arrange for some food, a hot drink…”
Alex cried out as he urged her back, her face a rictus of fear. She launched herself from the fireplace and curled up in one of the chairs, shaking.
Saul made as if to touch her again, comfort her, but Mark stepped in front of him. “It’s nothing. She just…” He turned to look at Alex, and she nodded her consent. He turned back to Saul and continued, “She just has a problem with fire, that’s all. Alex was burned as a baby, still has the scars. You saw them, remember?”
Saul stiffened. He looked at Alex closely, then back at the painting again. His lips moved silently in prayer as he made the sign of the cross. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.” The monk bowed and turned to leave. “I’ll get the food, you must be hungry.”
“I’m sorry, Brother,” Alex said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Saul smiled at her for a moment, then his face hardened as his gaze was drawn back to the picture once more. “No matter, child. I’m sorry I scared you.” He nodded once more, and was gone.
Alex stared up at Mark, her voice plaintive. “What do you think that was all about?”
“Christ knows,” he answered. “The man’s insane. I asked about that picture and he told me it was the burning of a witch.”
“Charming,” Alex commented, staring up at the thing.
“Tell me about it. When I said it must be quite old, he asked me why, said witches still exist.”
“Jesus!”
Alex rubbed her eyes, and Mark watched as she drew her feet up under her; something she always did when she felt vulnerable. He wondered if she knew that was when she did it. Mark knelt in front of her, pulled her hand towards him, unwrapped the tissue. Her finger had stopped bleeding, but there were irregular punctures along its length – ugly wounds, deep and jagged. “He said it was a bone that did this, didn’t he?”
“So he claimed,” Alex answered. “Although it’s really old anyway, so hopefully I won’t need a tetanus shot. You know, only old bugs not nasty fresh ones?”
Her feeble attempt at humour did nothing to make Mark smile. He kissed her fingers, his face serious. “I’m not sure it works like that,” he said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it.”
“Don’t worry, love,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt that much. I feel a bit stupid, really.”
“Why?”
“Because just before it cut me, I could have sworn I felt the thing move.”
Mark laughed. “Must be the weather. We’re giving each other the heebie-jeebies. Next you’re going to say it bit you.”
She nodded, then made room for him on the big old chair. She snuggled into Mark as he sat down, but said nothing – just stared at the flames, grateful for the warmth. Her finger throbbed, and she rubbed it without thinking, which only made the pain spread to her wrist. She cradled her hand against her chest and closed her eyes; exhausted. In the morning the car would be fixed and they could go on with their journey – find a place to settle down. That was what this whole trip was about, after all: finding somewhere that was theirs, where they could start anew.
Standing with his back against the kitchen door, Brother Saul shook as he closed his eyes and prayed. “Please God, not now,” he whispered. “We’ve been so careful. Please…” The wind howled and sobbed, and the monastery groaned in sympathy as it tried to hold firm against the night’s onslaught. In the hall, dust fell to the floor as things best left unseen started to stir, eager to break free…
By the time Saul made it back to the library with a tray of sandwiches and cups of tea, Mark and Alex had dozed off in the chair. Saul set the tray down on the small table beside their chair and stood over them, examining Alex’s face. It seemed ordinary enough, although pretty, certainly, but was it familiar? He wasn’t sure.
Something made him turn. He saw the flames were starting to die down – creating eerie shadows that capered and swept across the room before scurrying into the deeper darkness at its edges. He walked across to the painting, examined it. Was the woman’s face turned slightly more to the front? He must be getting senile in his old age, Saul chided himself. As if paintings could move. A noise behind him made him jump and he turned, suddenly scared.
Alex smiled up at him, eyes bleary. “Thank you for the food, Brother. And for the tea.” She straightened in her seat and Mark, too, started to stir. She reached for a cup and held it in both hands, comforted by its warmth. Alex took a sip, sighed, and looked at the brother once more. “What’s the matter? You look…”
“I was just surprised, child,” he said, smiling, and forced himself to relax. What could she know of this place’s history, its shame? “No need to worry yourself.”
She smiled again, happy enough for now to accept what he said at face value. Alex yawned, and Mark sat up, stretching, smiling as she handed him the second cup of tea. He looked at Saul and nodded his thanks, but said nothing.
Saul knew he had scared the young man, and part of him rejoiced. He needed to be scared. This modern generation (he forgot, sometimes, that he was only fifty-four himself) knew nothing of the old ways other than what they saw in films – they took nothing seriously except the pursuit of pleasure, not realising that there was always a price to be paid, and it was people like him who paid it, so that they could remain blissful in their ignorance. Saul had questions, many of them – but wasn’t sure yet how to proceed.
As if reading his mind, Alex grinned up at him. “Was there something you wanted to know?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Yes. I was just wondering where you’d come from, how far you’d travelled.” He saw the fear that flashed across Mark’s face, and realised he’d hit a nerve. But how? He hastened to reassure them. “It’s just you seem so tired…”
“It’s all right, Brother,” Alex said. “We’ve come quite a way – from the Peak District, in fact.”
“A long way to travel, especially in this weather,” Saul ventured.
“Yes, it is, I suppose.” She stared at Mark for a moment before continuing, but he was refusing to be drawn into the conversation, staring down at the floor, his face sullen. “Truth is we’re fed up with things where we live; we wanted to start somewhere new. This was… something of a tour, looking for a place that felt like we might be able to call it home.”
Saul smiled, even as he felt the sweat greasing his back. “And have you found somewhere like that?” Please God, no, his mind whispered. Not here. Not now.
Alex shook her head. “Not yet. We’re not even sure where we are at the moment; the rain came down so fast and we took a wrong turn just past Bodmin…”
Saul sighed. “You’re just outside Perranporth, not far from Newquay. A small place, but we like it.”
Alex thought for a moment. “W
e’ve still got a bit further to go to hit Land’s End, though, haven’t we?”
“A bit further, yes. You should be able to reach it tomorrow, if your car’s fixed.”
“Good.” Alex smiled at Mark, happier now than she’d appeared since arriving here. “That’s good, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted to see Land’s End.”
“Yeah, great.” Mark’s expression belied his words, but he said nothing more. The wind screamed down the chimney, and somewhere a door slammed, making them jump.
Saul flinched, too, but was careful not to let any trace of his disquiet show. Blood had been spilled. All he could do for now was pray that nothing had woken. “Old building,” he said. “Nothing to worry about, just the storm.” He headed towards the door, intent on finding the source of the disturbance. “Please excuse me,” he asked as he walked through the door. “I have some tasks to attend to.” Then he was gone.
Alex gazed thoughtfully at the fire, her hand throbbing with a cold fire that was surprising in its intensity. Maybe I did get tetanus after all, she thought, then shook her head. She stared up at the painting, and as soon as she gazed on the woman’s face (for it was a woman, she could see that clearly now), the pain in her hand started to scream. She flinched, and looked away.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” The voice that grated in her ear seemed foreign somehow, its cadence unfamiliar. Alex turned her head slowly, scared of who she might see – and relaxed visibly when it was Mark.
He frowned, worried about Alex. She was pale, yet her cheeks were flushed – she looked sweaty and sick. He noted how she was cradling her hand and wondered if she’d been right after all; could it be infected? He reached for it, gently, and was quick to reassure her when she whimpered in pain. “I won’t hurt it, I promise. I just want to see…” He was unwrapping the handkerchief she had round it as he spoke, and as he unwrapped the final layer his eyes widened in disbelief. “Christ, Alex…”
She snatched her hand back, buried it in her armpit, even as the pain forced a howl of protest from her lips. “Ooww!”
Mark coaxed it loose once more. “You have to let me see, Alex, I’ll get some water to clean it or something.”
This time she let him. Her hand was swollen, the flesh around the bite (it really was a bite, he saw, there were actual teeth marks there, and the punctures went almost to the bone) had turned an angry purplish red colour, with veins of infection snaking their way up to her wrist and even beyond. He saw with an almost detached curiosity that these veins followed the spidery thin scars that were the only legacy of the burns she’d incurred as a child.
“How bad is it?” Alex’s voice was thin, quavery, and Mark was touched to see that she’d closed her eyes, unwilling to see the evidence of her hand’s injury.
“It’s pretty bad,” he muttered. Mark touched the flesh, and winced. “Blimey, Alex, it’s baking!” He laid her hand gently on her lap and stood, unconsciously wiping his own hands on his trouser legs. “I’d better find Brother Saul, see if I can get something to clean it with, dress it.” He made for the door. “Just sit tight, okay? I won’t be long.”
The door slammed behind him and she was alone, hand throbbing in time with the rise and fall of the flames, or so it seemed. She sank back into the chair, mesmerised, all thought banished bar the knowledge of her pain.
Mark found himself back in a dark hall, with no idea of where to go. He heard footsteps off to his left, somewhere in the depths of the building, and turned in that direction. Even if it wasn’t the kitchen, someone was there, he reasoned. Someone who could help.
Some minutes later he was forced to admit that he’d been wrong. There was no one in sight, and all sounds had ceased. He found himself approaching a turn in the corridor, and paused. “Hello?” No response. He edged a few steps further forward and peered round the corner into the blackness. “Hello?”
This time he heard a whisper, quickly stifled. He heard rustling, close by, and he cried out as he stepped quickly back. His foot crunched on something brittle and he felt, rather than heard, the resultant hiss as something skittered away into the depths of the corridor. He turned and knelt, traced the contour of the flagstone with his fingertips. The dust felt curiously textured, large granules of something solid amidst the usual detritus that made up dust – dead skin and fluff of varying kinds. He brought his fingers up and examined them closely – the granules were chalky white in colour, curiously hard looking. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the coarseness of the grain, then looked down – his eyes happening upon a larger fragment still. He picked this piece up and stared closely at it. Was that… bone? His mind tried to whisper that it couldn’t be, but he knew now what he held in his hand. A parchment yellow fragment of some long dead bone; but from what?
A dry, cracking sound echoed just behind him and he whirled, ready to face whatever this thing was. Again, he saw nothing – but he heard the dry, creaking sound of it edging back into the night.
“Can I help you?”
The voice was high and nervous, even more so when Mark yelped and jumped at its sound. He fought to regain control of himself as he took in the figure standing before him. It was another monk, younger than him this time; he looked to be barely out of his teens. Tall and thin, his habit seemed to swamp him, leaving only his bony hands and feet showing outside its folds. “Who the hell are you?” Mark croaked.
Saul’s voice grated behind him, frightening Mark again. “This is Brother Peter, one of our newer members.” Saul sighed. “In fact, Peter is our only new novitiate for some time. It’s a more secular world these days.”
Peter nodded. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“That’s okay,” Mark said. “It’s just it was dark, and there was something…”
“What?” Saul’s voice had sharpened, and he stared at the floor as if terrified.
“I don’t know, now,” Mark admitted. “It was probably only a mouse or something, it’s just it sounded―”
“Yes?” Peter prompted.
“It was… dry. Like a cricket, or a locust or something. Or…” He stared at the two men, aware he sounded like a lunatic. “…or bone,” he finished.
“Bone?” Saul was trying hard not to smirk, but he was desperate not to show this as he went on. “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
Mark heard a stifled giggle from behind, and sighed. This day just kept getting worse and worse. “I’m sure that’s it. Anyway, I wondered if you had a first aid kit?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Saul’s face was creased with concern, Mark saw, and tried not to let that fact sink any deeper into him than his own worry already had. “It’s Alex; it looks to me as if her finger’s infected.”
The monk looked blank.
“You know, from the cut she got earlier?”
Saul pushed past, then, heading left instead of the direction Mark had briefly considered. “Come with me,” he shouted, already halfway down a corridor.
Mark rushed to keep up, barely noticing Peter’s disappearance. Saul had pushed a door halfway down the corridor on the right-hand side open, and marched straight in. Mark followed, finding himself in what looked like a doctor’s surgery. He stopped and stared at the modern equipment, at odds with the surroundings.
Saul looked up, his expression amused. “What? You think because we’re monks we live in the dark ages?” He was rummaging around in a chrome and glass cabinet as he spoke, gathering supplies – a bowl, a bottle of what looked like antiseptic, cotton wool, dressings… he handed this to Mark and gestured at a sink in the far corner. “Fill that with warm water, would you?” He slammed the cabinet shut and locked it as Mark did his bidding, then they were off again, racing down the corridor towards the library.... and Alex.
To Mark, it seemed as if the darkness actually cowered away from them as they burst through the library door. Shadows seemed to roil backwards, and he heard hissing – then felt a little ashamed at his own nerves as he realised it must
be the coals from the fire, hissing as they released some errant hint of gas or moisture from their depths. Alex was still in the chair, her form oddly wasted in the half-light from the fire; she looked.... different, somehow, although Mark couldn’t have said why; at least, not then.
She struggled to sit up as they approached her, and they could see the damage the fever had visited upon her. Alex’s face was thin and wan, her expression harried. Beads of sweat stood proud on her forehead, and her skin had a sickly yellow sheen that spoke of the infection that seemed to have raced through her body. Mark was shocked to see the thin, spidery purple lines were now erupting from the neck of her jumper, scoring faint lines upwards as she struggled to keep some semblance of herself.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Alex whispered, her voice as insubstantial as the smoke disappearing up the chimney, drawn by the storm’s force.
“Nothing, love,” Mark answered as he sat by her side, placed the bowl of water upon the small side table there. He nodded his thanks as Saul placed the cotton wool beside him, opening the small bottle to pour some of its foul smelling contents into the water.
“Antiseptic,” Saul explained, in answer to Mark’s unspoken question.
Alex was muttering, slumped back in the chair once more now she realised who was with her. Her eyes were half-open and she seemed to be speaking with someone, although no one else was near.
“Who are you talking to, love?” Mark asked.
“Secret…” she whispered.
“A secret?”
Alex nodded. “Mustn’t tell. She’ll leave if I tell.”
Saul stiffened. Fighting to keep his voice level he asked, “Who will leave, child?”
The voice that came from Alex’s mouth was different now, its tone harsher, its cadence more formal. “You would have me believe you don’t know, Saul?” She laughed – a harsh, crazed sound that was at odds with Alex’s semi-comatose state. “Be careful what you ask.”
Saul said no more, simply crossed himself and started to pray, casting glances at the painting as he did so.
In Times Of Want Page 9
