The Road to Bedlam cotf-2

by Mike Shevdon

"You said it was a calling."

  "Did I?"

  "You said not everyone who follows this calling believes in God."

  "'Believes in the presence of God' is what I said. They believe in Him, but they're not sure whether He believes in them."

  "But you do. You were called?"

  "You wouldn't do it for the money. The pay is awful."

  "You still do it, though. Was there a revelation, a road to Damascus?"

  "Why do you ask? Am I part of your story too?"

  "Perhaps. You're holding it all together, aren't you?"

  He paused, considering.

  "Were you called?" I asked.

  "Not sure you'd call it that. I was born here. Maybe I just came home."

  I could tell by his voice that there was more to it than that, but I didn't press him. After a few moments he continued.

  "When I was a lad, I had an Auntie here." The word "Auntie" came out as "anti", as if it were a protest against something. "We were living away by then, but we used to come and stay. Fishing off the dock, ice cream for tea; that sort of thing. It was only summers, like. In the winter it's a different place."

  He continued striding up the steep hill, breathing easily but momentarily reflective.

  "Grew up in Rotherham. Back-to-back terraces, no work, no jobs. The men used to play dice on the corner, out of sight of the wives." The accent had slipped, giving way to flatter vowels, harsher consonants. "School were a boring place, most of the time we were out of it unless you were caught. If you were caught, you were caned."

  He grinned, without humour.

  "I had a dicky leg, though. Couldn't run. Couldn't keep up. Too easily caught. They'd leave me behind."

  The pace he set showed no sign of the bad leg now.

  "So I would be in school while they ran the streets. I did exams. Got into grammar school. Used to come home every night in the uniform and they'd throw sticks and bottles at me."

  "You must have hated them."

  "No, I wanted to be with them. Out. Free. The posh kids at school called me Makeshit, the kids at home Gimpy Greg. I know which I preferred." He turned into a side street, keeping the same long stride. "Coming up for school board exams I got a fever. It was touch and go for a while. The doctors didn't like it. Didn't know what to make of it. It was there and then gone. I was delirious then lucid. Sick then better. They said it was a virus, fighting my immune system. Long before HIV, this was."

  He set off down the street again.

  "I was sent here to recover. Never did the exams. I was here for months. The vicar, Georgeson, my predecessor, came every day. He would lay his hand on my forehead and tell me that He was looking out for me and He wasn't going to let me go. He said He had big plans for me. At the end of it I was changed."

  "Changed?"

  "No gimpy leg. No pain. I could run along the tops, jump over the heather. I would race on the bike down the hill, no fear, pedalling like a madman. I crashed twice. Wasn't hurt. Not a scratch. Wrecked the bike the second time. Then Georgeson came to see me. He said there was a place at the seminary if I wanted it. They would get me my exams, teach me what I needed, show me my path. It meant going away, but I knew I would return. Been here ever since."

  He stopped where steps led down to the street below, opening out the skyline, showing the moving shadows of cloud across the sea beyond the rooftops.

  "You feel blessed." It was obvious when you looked at him.

  "It was a gift."

  "Have you ever been back? To Rotherham, I mean?"

  "It's all gone. The old bomb sites are supermarkets and the kids don't play in the streets any more. Too scared of child molesters and drug dealers." He set off down the street again.

  The temptation to ask him about the fever, the moment when his leg recovered and he began to change, was intense. Had he felt the same opening inside? Was he conscious of the power within him? To ask, though, would beg too many questions I didn't want to answer.

  We arrived at a doorway, mid-terrace. The sound of a child squealing indignantly percolated through the window beside the door. Without preamble, Greg pressed the bell button. A distorted electronic chime sounded inside. There was a pause, then more shouting – an older voice with harsher edges. "Shelley! Shelley! See who's at the door, will ya?"

  There was another pause and then the rhythmic thump as stairs were descended at speed. The door was pulled open, revealing a sullen girl in a sparkly T-shirt and jeans.

  "It's Shelley, isn't it?" said Greg, giving no hint that we'd heard the yelling.

  "S'right."

  "Would like a word with your mother, please, Shelley? If she has a moment?"

  She grimaced, but turned and shouted down the passage towards a back room. "Mam! It's the vicar. He wants a word."

  The sound of a baby crying erupted from the kitchen.

  "Isn't it a school day, Shelley?" Greg enquired.

  The girl lifted her chin. "I'm poorly, aren't I?" Her expression dared him to contradict the obvious lie.

  A middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen wiping down the front of her top with a tea towel. "Well, don't just stand there like a ninny. Invite him in."

  Shelley opened the door a little more, revealing me.

  "He's got someone with 'im, hasn't he?"

  Shelley retreated into the hall, allowing us into the house.

  "You bringin' round the bailiff now, vicar?" the woman asked.

  "Like a quiet word, please, Mrs Hopkins. About Karen."

  "Nothin' left to say, is there?" she said.

  "Neal here's a journalist. Wants to try and find the girls."

  "Does he now?" She paused, looking me straight up and down, not disguising that her frank assessment left me wanting.

  "A quiet word? Five minutes?"

  A wail started up from the kitchen behind her.

  "Shelley. See to the tiddler, will ya? I need to talk to the vicar."

  "Oh, mum!"

  "Now! Or you can put your uniform on and go to school. One or t'other."

  She sighed, shrugged and pushed past her mother to the back of the house. Mrs Hopkins opened a side door and ushered us into a sitting room. It was tight with furniture, dominated by a big-screen TV over the fireplace where a mirror or a picture would once have been. The screen was off and reflected the room darkly.

  "I'd offer you tea, but we're off out as soon as tiddler's fed." The lie was obvious to me and must have been to Greg.

  "Don't want to put you to any trouble, Mrs Hopkins. Neal here just wanted to ask a few questions about Karen."

  "Nothing to say. She's gone." She shrugged but glanced towards the fireplace. There was a family photo crammed in among the ornaments. Karen was smiling out of it, tucked under her mother's arm. Her father held a baby, and Shelley and a younger boy sat in front. I wondered if it was significant that Mrs Hopkins had placed herself between her daughter and her husband.

  I cleared my throat. "Was there any indication that she was going to leave, before she disappeared?"

  "The police asked all this. We've been over it a hundred times."

  "It'll help me form a picture of her. I might be able to find her."

  "She's gone and there's no bringing her back. It doesn't help to keep going over it, you know."

  "So you've given up hope?" I asked.

  She sighed and looked at her hands. " No. I still hope she'll come home. I don't think she will, but I hope."

  "I'd like to try and help you, Mrs Hopkins."

  "That's kind, Mr… Neal, is it?"

  "Neal Dawson," I said.

  "But I think everything that could be done has been done. If she wanted to come back to us by now, she would have done."

  "What if she can't? She may not have any money. She may be lost, or alone."

  "I think if she meant to come back, she'd find a way, don't you? All she'd have to do is pick up the phone. She could even reverse the charges."

  She stood and went to the door and opened it.
"I think we'll have to go out shortly, if you don't mind. Thanks for calling round, vicar."

  Greg and I stood and eased our way out of the cramped sitting room and into the hallway. We said goodbye at the door.

  "Thanks for seeing us, Mrs Hopkins," said Greg.

  "You were very good to us when Karen disappeared, vicar. We've not forgotten that."

  "Least I could do."

  "Come any time. You're always welcome."

  "God bless."

  "You too." She closed the door quietly.

  Greg paused for a second before the blank doorway and then turned and strode away, his long stride making it hard to keep up. He didn't speak and I mulled over what we'd heard before I started asking questions.

  We retraced our steps and came to the road leading down to the hillside church. He paused before the busy traffic, waiting for a lull between cars.

  "What is she not saying?" I asked him.

  "What makes you think there's something she's not saying?"

  "I offer to help find her missing daughter and she turns me down. She says everything's been done. I tell her that her daughter may need help and she dismisses it. All she has to do is pick up the phone? What happened to leaving no stone unturned? If it were my daughter…"

  "Not though, is it? It's not your daughter. It's hers."

  He strode out into the traffic, the cars braking to let him through. No one beeped at him or shouted. Maybe they were used to this tall dark man walking straight into the road, his eyes ahead, heedless of the danger.

  I had to wait for a gap in the cars to follow. He was unlocking the church doors when I caught up.

  "Like you, in my profession there's a feel for when people aren't telling you the whole story." I carefully didn't mention what that profession was. "Call it a hunch."

  "As you say, a hunch." He walked over to the pinboard and unpinned a picture. He took a parish news-sheet, ripped the back page from the staples and wrote out a name and two addresses, one a college, one a cafe. He gave them to me.

  "What's this?"

  "Want to find the lost girls? This is what they call a clue – better than a hunch. Be outside here -" he pointed to the address "- it's part of Hull College. Be there at four o'clock this afternoon. Ask for Zaina. Find Zaina, you'll find Karen. If she's not there, go to the cafe. The address is there underneath."

  "You know where she is?"

  "I know where she'll be."

  "Why didn't you tell her mother?"

  "Before you help people, Neal, you have to find out what they need. Otherwise you end up making things worse."

  "You could at least ease her mind; tell her that she's OK."

  "Go and find Karen, Neal. Then come back and tell me what I should do." He found my holdall in the corner easily, regardless of the warding I had placed upon it, and pushed it into my arms

  "Tomorrow," he said, "when you've had time to sleep on it."

  He patted my shoulder and then walked slowly up the central aisle of the church, halted before the altar and slowly knelt. I left him to his prayers.

  Hull was a good few miles away. If I was to be there by four, I would need to use the Ways. Before that I needed somewhere to stay. I walked back down the hill to the harbour and then along to Dorvey Street. The Dolphin Guest House was the third in a terraced row. It looked clean and cared for, but the sign said 'No Vacancy'. I almost turned away, but then remembered that Geraldine at the cafe had said that Martha would 'sort me out'. Maybe she had somewhere else I could stay. I rapped with the polished door knocker and waited until the door was opened, revealing a small woman wearing a plum satin blouse with huge flowers on it.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "Hi. I'm Neal Dawson. Geraldine at the Harbour Cafe said you might be able to recommend somewhere to stay for a few days, just while I'm in town."

  "Selling something?"

  "No, I just wanted to ask about rooms. Geraldine at the cafe said…"

  "I meant, are you a travelling salesman?"

  "No, a journalist."

  "What kind of journalism? None of that smutty stuff, celebrity muckraking and sensationalist claptrap?"

  "It's mostly human interest stories. I've had my name in some of the quality papers."

  She looked me over. "Better come in then." She stepped back and opened the door wide so that I could bring the bag inside.

  "It said 'No Vacancies' outside."

  "I only take recommended guests; a certain type of gentleman. You get such riff-raff otherwise. It drags the whole tone of the place down. The sign discourages passers-by."

  "Trade must be good if you can afford to turn away business."

  "We get by without taking in waifs and strays."

  Waifs and strays. I had once been described as a waif and stray. I looked around the well-appointed hall, white-painted and clean. The waxed wooden floorboards could be seen at the side of the patterned carpet runner. A dark wood mirrored sideboard had a number of daily papers on it, including those of the scurrilous press.

  She caught me eyeing the papers. "We keep those for guests – a selection of daily papers."

  "Very convenient," I said.

  "It's strictly no visitors, I'm afraid."

  "I'm not expecting any."

  "No women, or men."

  "So you do have a room for me?"

  She named a daily rate. "Breakfast is between seven and eight-thirty. If you're going to be out after ten, let me know and I'll let you have a key."

  "May I see the room?"

  I followed her up two flights of stairs to a short corridor with two numbered doors. "Number 21. No smoking in the rooms, I'm afraid. If you want to light up you'll have to do it outside on the fire escape."

  "That's OK, I don't."

  The room was small, but had its own toilet and shower, a small wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers. The single bed was tucked under the sloping ceiling.

  "How long will you be staying?"

  "A few nights, three or four, maybe a little longer. Is that OK?"

  "If you book for a week, the seventh night is free."

  "I think I'll be gone by then, thanks all the same." How long were the Seventh Court likely to stay? Until after the solstice, Garvin said.

  "If you come downstairs I'll take your credit card details."

  "I'd rather pay cash, if that's OK?"

  "Cash?" She looked wary at that. "If it's cash it has to be in advance. We've had problems before with gentlemen being called away urgently and forgetting to settle their bill."

  "I'd say that they weren't gentlemen, then, were they?" I paid her for the next three days from my wallet. "Obviously I'll settle up in advance if I intend to stay on."

  I half expected her to tuck the money into her bra where the VAT man wouldn't find it, but she simply smiled. "That's fine, Mr Dawson. We always welcome customers who pay promptly. I'll bring a receipt up for you."

  After she'd gone I went through the room carefully, finding only a Gideon bible in the bedside drawer and empty coat hangers in the wardrobe. I left my gear in my bag, not really wanting to move in. It was only temporary.

  I placed my hand on the mirror screwed to the wall over the chest.

  "Blackbird?"

  The curtains billowed in the draft from the window as the air in the room chilled slightly. A sound entered the room, thrumming an uneven rhythm.

  "Blackbird?"

  "Not now."

  "What's not now, darlin'?" Another voice, coarse and unschooled. It sounded enclosed; raised to be heard over the rumbling background noise. Where was she?

  "I was just thinking, there isn't so much traffic on the motorway now."

  "It's gonna get a lot busier as we get closer to London, you can be sure of that. You all right like that, darlin?"

  "I'm fine, thanks. My boyfriend's going to be so surprised when I get there, isn't he?"

  "He is if he don't know you're in that state." He laughed, but the humour leached out of it.
"He does know, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, he knows. I'll be fine, don't worry."

  "Only you look like you're gonna drop it any minute."

  "There's weeks to go yet. Don't worry."

  "Is it your first?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "First ones are always late. You talk to my missus. Our first was three weeks late. I was beginin' to think he weren't coming."

  There was a knock on the door to my room and I dropped the connection with the mirror, the sound dying suddenly.

  "Yes, who is it?"

  "It's me, Mr Dawson. I brought up your receipt for you."

  I opened the door to find the landlady. She offered the receipt.

  "Strange," she said. "I thought I heard voices."

  "I like to have the radio on," I told her, avoiding the fact that I didn't have a radio with me. "It's company."

  "I like the radio myself. Is there a play on?"

  "I'm not sure what it was." I stayed with the truth. "I didn't hear enough to work out what was going on."

  "Oh, well. You mustn't let me interrupt then. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Seven till eight-thirty."

  "Thanks for the receipt."

  "My pleasure, Mr Dawson. Enjoy your day."

  I closed the door, but had the feeling she lingered in the corridor. To make the point, I went into the tiny bathroom, quietly filled the small plastic cup there and used it to pour a long trickle of water into the toilet before flushing it noisily. The fire door down the hall thumped gently as she made her way back downstairs.

  In any case I wasn't about to contact Blackbird again. Not now , she said. I would try again later. Where was she? Garvin had said he would tell her that I'd gone, but he'd been insistent she would be safe at the courts where she could be guarded. Had something happened? Wherever she was, it clearly wasn't the courts. What had caused her to leave?

  The urge to return to the courts and find out what had happened was strong, but that would mean disobeying orders. Also, I assumed that once I had left they had closed the access to the Ways, sealing off the High Court while the negotiations with the Seventh Court were in progress. I comforted myself with the reassurance that Blackbird had looked after herself for many years before I knew her.

  Instead, I would try and find Karen. If I was going to Hull, I could hardly take all my things with me. I'd have to leave my bag but my instinct told me that as soon as I was safely gone the landlady would be back and my belongings would be gently searched, if only to confirm my identity. I slid out the sword and laid it on the chest. If I took the sword and the codex with me, there was nothing else incriminating in the bag.