The Road to Bedlam cotf-2

by Mike Shevdon

  "Why would the mirror be colder in the centre?" she asked herself. "Shit!" She pressed her hand over her mouth.

  She left the bathroom and went to the other mirror over the dresser. It was clear. She breathed soft on the mirror until it misted and then watched it slowly clear. Then she breathed on the edge of the mirror. It cleared much faster there. Both of the mirrors in the room were colder than they should be.

  She shook her head and whispered to herself, "Don't they tell you in the Seventh Court that it's rude to spy on a lady?"

  She went and collected a shoe from the floor and hefted it in her hand. She walked over to the mirror and held the shoe up ready. A tap from the door stopped her.

  "One moment."

  She replaced the shoe and went to the door. "Who is it?"

  "Steward. Mister Garvin said that you would take breakfast in your room."

  Blackbird opened the door cautiously, finding the steward, a trolley and no one else.

  "How long have you been a steward here?" she asked the girl in the white apron and double-breasted jacket.

  The girl looked uncertain. "Two years, or thereabouts. Is there a problem?"

  She opened the door. "Maybe not."

  The steward propelled the trolley into the room, took a cloth from the bottom shelf and draped it over the table with a flourish.

  "A beautiful morning, isn't it?" she said.

  "Is it?" said Blackbird. "I haven't been out."

  "Makes you feel alive, a morning like this." There was a trace of an Irish accent in her voice. "Would you like the balcony windows open? It'll let some of the fresh air in."

  "Maybe later," said Blackbird. "When I've dressed."

  The steward laid a single place, setting out pastries, toast and a small dish and then a pot which she placed on a warmer. "Mr Garvin said that you might like to try the porridge, and to bring you apple rather than orange juice as you weren't to have anything too sharp."

  Blackbird raised her eyebrow, "Is that supposed to be some sort of joke?"

  The girl stopped, looking genuinely puzzled. "I'm sorry, Miss, have I said the wrong thing?"

  Blackbird shook her head slowly. "I think Mr Garvin is having a joke at your expense. Would you give him a message for me, word for word?"

  "I'm not sure, Miss. I don't really like these sort of games." She finished setting out the table, glancing uncertainly at Blackbird.

  "Tell him that apple juice is fine and that Miss Blackbird sends her compliments and hopes that one day soon he will grow up."

  The girl smiled and shook her head. "I don't think I can say that, Miss."

  Blackbird followed her to the door. "Oh, I insist, and if he says anything to you, tell him I said he should come and talk to me about it."

  "Very well, Miss. If you insist."

  "I do. Thank you…" Blackbird tipped her head to one side.

  "Lesley, Miss. My name's Lesley."

  "Thank you, Lesley. I'll leave the trolley outside the door when I've finished with it if that is acceptable?"

  "That's fine, Miss. Please enjoy your breakfast."

  "I will, Lesley. Thank you."

  As soon as the door was shut, she uncovered the basket of pastries, wrapped two of them in a napkin and set them aside. She gulped down a small glass of apple juice and turned back to her clothes.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she tried to pull on socks despite the hindrance of her swollen belly. She found that she could only reach her feet if she didn't try to breathe at the same time. She got one on, slightly twisted, and then had to wait a moment before she could attempt the other.

  "Oh, for goodness sake!"

  She leaned down and tugged the other sock on, struggling with it until she was pink and cross. She frowned down at her belly, but then her expression softened. She stroked her hand slowly down the bump. "Soon," she whispered.

  Once dressed she took her bag and stuffed a change of clothes into it. Never intended as an overnight bag, it bulged rather, but she wanted to carry as little as possible. She collected the rolled-up flannel with the items inside it from the bathroom and tucked those down the side. Then she took the napkin containing the pastries and placed that on the top.

  She broke the end off one of the remaining pastries and washed it down with apple juice. "Too sharp, indeed."

  She hunted through the limited cutlery and selected a butter knife that would be no use as a weapon but might prove useful as a tool. She tucked that into the other side of the bag.

  She drained the juice glass, then went into the bathroom and used the toilet. She washed and dried her hands while she looked around the bathroom. Next to the bath was a long-handled back brush with a rope on the end.

  "Right," she whispered to herself. "If you want something to listen to, we'll give you something."

  Flushing the toilet again to create some ambient noise, she climbed into the bath and, taking the brush, reached up to hang the rope loop over the shower head. She climbed carefully out and drew the shower curtain across. When she turned the shower on, the brush swung around in the jet of water, making a convincing noise of someone showering. She grinned and turned it off again.

  She left the bathroom, put on her shoes, collected her bag and placed it by the door. Taking the blunt knife, she went back into the bathroom, turned the water on full and pulled the shower curtain across. She watched the mist spread across the mirror. Then she quietly left the bathroom and, using the knife, turned the slotted bolt on the door from the outside, so that the door was locked. She listened to the sound of splashing water and nodded to herself.

  Checking the corridor was clear, she turned away from the main hall, walked to the end of the hall and took the small stairway down to the servants quarters. It had the advantage of avoiding the main hallway and was the place she was least likely to encounter Raffmir and his crony. While she was sure they were aware that there were back stairs and servants' quarters, she doubted they'd ever deigned to visit any of them.

  She pressed herself into a wood-panelled doorway when one of the stewards came past. He didn't see her, but then he wasn't looking for an absconder. She waited until he'd gone, then slipped down through the back of the house and came out through a disused pantry with piles of old boxes and the tang of ancient newspapers lining the shelves.

  What used to be the stables was now a garage, but that wasn't much good to her since she couldn't drive. She did consider stowing away in the boot of one of the cars, but there was no way of telling which of them were going out and which were staying in the garage. She didn't want to end up trapped in there.

  A better opportunity presented itself with the delivery van. The side was emblazoned with an array of cartoon cabbages and carrots with 'Coutler's Fresh Fruit and Vegetables' circled around it. The driver wasn't with the van, but the van wasn't locked so he couldn't have gone far. The back of the van had racks for trays of vegetables in it and nowhere to sit, so she went up front, climbed in and made herself comfortable. She kept a careful eye on the rear-view mirror, watching to see if it misted up. Once they discovered she'd flown the nest, the hunt would be on. She hoped they were enjoying listening to her in the shower.

  She heard the vegetable man loading the trays back into the van and talking to one of the cooks from the kitchen. Blackbird hunkered down in the seat. She didn't want to give herself away too early. She heard the back doors slam and goodbyes exchanged. The driver's door opened.

  "'Ere! Who are you?"

  "Hello," she said quietly.

  "What'ya doing in there? Get out of it."

  "I'm called Blackbird," she said, offering her hand. "And you are?"

  He didn't take it. "Never mind that, Miss, you can't just climb in someone's van like that. Out ya get!"

  Blackbird withdrew her hand and placed it back in her lap, looking forwards. "I need a lift," she said, "into the village."

  "I'm not insured to carry passengers. What do you think I am, a taxi service?"

 
"I thought you might be kind enough to take me as far as the village. I can make my own way from there."

  "I told you. No way."

  She looked resolutely through the windscreen.

  "Come on, out you get," he insisted.

  "Are you going to manhandle a pregnant woman?"

  "Manhandle you? I don't even know what the word means."

  "I'm not moving."

  "I told you, I'm not insured. It's against the rules, see?"

  "I won't tell anyone."

  "It's not down to me. If someone sees you in the van I could get in a lot of trouble."

  "Not as much trouble as I'm in. I need your help. If I don't get out of here quickly I will be in great danger. My baby will be in danger." She rested her hand on the bump for emphasis.

  "Are you mad?"

  She turned her head and stared him down. "No, not mad. Scared. There are some people here who want to hurt me and my baby. If you won't take me I'm going to have to walk, maybe even try and run. Do you think running is going to be good for a pregnant woman? That's how scared I am."

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. "Oh, Jesus."

  She waited, staring through the windscreen, not meeting his gaze.

  He sighed, heavily. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

  "It'll be our secret, I promise. If you take me as far as the village, I can hitch a ride to the motorway from there." She added a hesitant smile.

  He climbed into the cab. "Put your seat belt on. You might have to fish around for it. I'll take you to the motorway junction. There'll be less people see us that way. I've got another delivery to make on the way. You all right with that?"

  "Anywhere but here, as they say. What did you say your name was?"

  "Tony. What's yours?"

  "You can call me Blackbird. Everyone does."

  The van started up in a grumble of diesel, then complained as the clutch wasn't depressed enough and the gears grated. Tony shook his head, but whether that was at the van or at Blackbird, she didn't know.

  As they rumbled down the drive, Blackbird looked back at the house, wondering how long she had before they discovered she'd gone.

  SEVEN

  The echo of power still tingled in my hand as the vicar of St Andrew's opened the door into the church. With the narrow windows down each side it would have felt confining but for the huge leaded window catching the sea-light and fragmenting it into every corner. As I entered I felt as if I had walked in on something private but the church was empty.

  "Catches you first time, doesn't it?"

  "Hmm?"

  "The window. Everyone stops there the first time they see it. The way it was meant to be seen, with the morning sun behind it. Local artist made it. Old one was dark-coloured glass – Victorian. Made the church feel like a mausoleum."

  "You got rid of it?"

  "Didn't need to. Germans did that for me, long before my time. Bomber got lost and thought we were Hull. The church was the only building in the town that got hit."

  "Some might take that as a sign, no offence meant."

  "None taken. I take it as a gift. No one was hurt and the bomb did no structural harm. There was temporary glass there for a long time. Then a sponsor approached me and asked if we would like a new window. Not often that churches are offered donations these days. Even so, we were sceptical. The sponsors own the big glass building opposite, a temple to Mammon."

  "The call centre?"

  "That's one of the things they do there. I was worried they would want their logo in the glass, or at least a plaque to commemorate the sponsorship. They were happy simply to donate. It was quite refreshing. They gave us a free hand with respect to the style, though of course they wanted to see the designs and were delighted when we commissioned a local artist. All done in the name of corporate responsibility and community relations."

  "That's altruistic of them."

  "Rare in these times, don't you think?"

  "I expect you're right."

  "You didn't say what you wanted."

  "I was looking for details of the vigil."

  He turned with his back to the window, outlining himself in light. "You said that was what you were looking for, but not what you wanted. In my job you get a feel for when people are being evasive."

  I looked at him, haloed by the light, black against the fragmented flood. If he really had power then he would be able to tell whether I was lying, in the same way I could tell when anyone lied to me.

  "I'm looking into the disappearance of the girls. I thought I might get a look at the families." I opened my wallet and handed him the NUJ card, letting him make the assumption that I was a journalist.

  "Been done," he said. "All the details have been taken down, the background of the families combed for dirt. Offered to a national, but 'Young Women Leave Home' wasn't headline-grabbing enough."

  "You're very cynical for a man of God."

  "Realistic about human nature. Believe me, I get to see all sides of it."

  "I didn't come to write a story about missing girls."

  "Then why do you want to see the families?"

  "If I can find the girls, find out what happened to them, why they left, where they went, there might be a story in it. Or there might not."

  "You think the families haven't tried to find them?"

  "I dare say my methods are different from theirs. Either way, it may be worth a try. What is there to lose?"

  "Maybe more than you know."

  He walked over to the far corner. A huge pinboard was mounted there, overlapping the window behind it. It was covered in photos, posters, letters of support, news clippings, anything that linked to the girls. Some of the girls featured more prominently than others. The two from the lamp posts were most evident.

  "Campaign central. They come here on a Friday night to meet, talk, swap false hopes and share expectations. They asked me if they could use this corner and I agreed. I thought it might help. Not sure whether I did the right thing, now."

  "You don't share their hopes?"

  "Not that. Wonder whether it's doing them any good, to go over and over it each week. Loss is a terrible thing, but sometimes it's better to try and move on, learn to live with it."

  "It's easier to live with it if you know what happened to them."

  He looked up sharply, searching my face. Something in my voice had triggered his reaction. "Did you lose someone, Neal?"

  I looked at the photographs. "My daughter."

  "Missing?"

  "There was an accident. She was stolen from me. Weweren't able to see the body. It made it unreal, as if she weren't lost at all."

  "Ah. Sorry."

  "I didn't come here looking for sympathy."

  He stepped out into the middle of the church. "Do you believe in God, Neal?"

  "I'm not sure I know what I believe in."

  "I believe in Him. You may think that's obvious, given my profession, but you might be surprised at how many who follow this calling come to doubt the presence, if not the existence, of God."

  "I didn't come looking for God, either."

  "Don't have to. Rather the point, don't you think?"

  He turned and faced the window. I watched him, facing the full light, outlined against the morning.

  "It's not what it seems, you know." He spoke to the window rather than turning and facing me.

  "Things rarely are."

  "If I take you to one of the families and it doesn't do any good, will you let it go?"

  "I can't say until I've seen them."

  He stood framed against the light for a long while, thinking or praying or maybe just waiting for me to add something else. Finally he turned, went back to the photo board and pulled out a pin to release a photo, which he handed to me."Karen Hopkins went missing almost a year ago. Eldest girl of four, seventeen when she vanished. Three younger children, youngest is two. Father works in the chandler's down the dock. On halftime at the moment, but he'll be at
work this morning so there's a chance to meet the mother, if you want to."

  "I shouldn't meet the father?"

  "He won't talk about Karen. Won't even have her name mentioned. If you want to talk to Mrs Hopkins it has to be now while he's at work."

  "Was there trouble between them?"

  "No, nothing like that. Not everyone deals with the situation in the same way. For some it's easier to lock it away and carry on."

  "Then yes, I'd like to speak with Mrs Hopkins."

  "Leave the overnight bag here. I'll lock the church. If they do get in they'll steal the silver first. Stash it in the corner there."

  I tucked my bag into the corner, conscious of the sword cached in the side pocket. Garvin wouldn't like me leaving it, but I could hardly carry it around with me. While my back was between the vicar and the bag, I pressed my hand to it, using a small amount of power to turn curious eyes away from it. Now anyone coming in while we were gone would have to be actively looking for the bag to notice it. It would do as a temporary measure.

  Greg was waiting at the door. I passed through the shadowed porch and waited while he locked the church. He strode from the porch past me, and my stride lengthened to match his so I could keep up. We walked straight out into the traffic, which slowed around him to allow us across, then we turned uphill.

  "It must keep you fit, all this walking."

  "Have a car; don't use it much. By the time you've found a parking place you might as well have walked. It gets a ride out if I go out to one of the farms or when I go to the big supermarket in town."

  I was thinking that having all that metal around him probably wasn't comfortable. I'd noticed that the railings around the church had been cut down. Perhaps it was no coincidence that although the east window had been replaced, the gates were chained back and the railings had never been put back.