Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  Father Eamon grabbed Emma by her arm and dragged her into Trinity Square. Emma turned to see him looking up and down the road before turning to search the sky. The cautious confidence that had been there earlier evaporated as Emma watched Father Eamon’s movements become more rigid and urgent.

  “Emma, we must not stay here, it is not safe.”

  He guided her to a side street that, she remembered, led to Seething Lane. “Where are we going?” Emma was now searching the buildings and roads around her, although she hadn’t got a clue what she was looking for.

  Father Eamon looked at the sky behind before giving her another tug towards the street. “Safety.”

  Safety seemed to Emma to be a relative term in her current situation. She entered the narrow road and sped up as she tried to keep up with Father Eamon. They had barely got halfway down when Emma felt a sudden rise in the temperature. Father Eamon pulled her into a doorway and clasped his hand firmly over her mouth.

  “Ahh, Eamon, you idiot. Why did you not see this coming?”

  Father Eamon’s self-reproachment did not fill Emma with confidence. See what coming? The answer came by way of a mist that billowed into the Trinity Square end of the road and slowly proceeded to fill the street.

  Emma’s heart felt like it would leap out of her mouth at any second. Sweat was starting to sting her eyes as it dripped down her face. The mist was now halfway up the street and she could start to make out movement within it.

  As the mist got closer Emma could make out something else. At first it wasn’t obvious, but there was a noise being carried on the wind. A noise that sounded to Emma like fingernails being dragged down a blackboard. She cringed as it got louder but then listened harder as she realised that the sound was in fact a voice. It was repeating one word over and over again.

  “Ehhmma”.

  The voice reached into Emma’s very core. It was all she could do not to bolt off down the street, away from what was coming.

  The mist was closing in on them and Emma could make out figures starting to break through into the street. She turned to Father Eamon who raised a single finger to his mouth, slowly shaking his head.

  Dark shadows from the surrounding buildings filled the street as the sky turned a deep red and the crackle and spit of unseen flames accompanied the figures as they moved closer. Emma could hear them breathing now and, as they cleared the mist, she could sense the air around them turn stagnant. Their faces started to show below dusty and battered Fedora hats; cadaverous, with decayed teeth exposed in a rictus smile. The nearest one became clearer, the ripped black suit it wore hanging loosely off its stooped, skeletal frame.

  The whisper was now a voice and the words filled Emma’s ears: “We have sssuch wondersss prepared for you, Ehhmma. Sssuch exquissite desssolation.”

  They were at hand now, and the nearest one raised its head as the stench of its decay burnt Emma’s nostrils. Emma wanted to cry, but fought the tears, desperate not to do anything that might attract their attention. Above them, the raven they had seen a short while earlier had now returned and was hopping from building to building as if its feet would melt in to the rooftop if it stayed too long in any one position. Eventually the bird perched itself on a lintel above the doorway where they were standing. Emma could hear its claws scratching the brickwork as it worked its way along, scanning the buildings and pavement for any sign of them. Neither she nor Father Eamon dared move for fear of giving away their position and it seemed like an eternity before the bird moved on, followed by the things, Emma couldn’t think of anything better to describe them. They limped past her, heading back the way they had come, but Emma dared not breathe. Finally she allowed herself to suck in a small amount of air once the mist had disappeared round the corner. Emma shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped.

  “What were those things?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Not now, Emma. The sanctuary is near. We must turn at the corner.” Father Eamon was pointing to a junction across the road to their left.

  They slipped away from the doorway and headed towards a square that looked to Emma to have more in common with a tropical rain forest than with anything that could be called a London address. The garden in the centre was overgrown to the point where the once closely clipped bushes and borders had become wild and savage.

  “Stay close to me, Emma, we’re nearly there.”

  Father Eamon guided Emma along the narrow street and she started to breathe a little easier. She looked around, taking in the sheltered square, but in doing so failed to see a broken paving slab in front of her. Emma tripped and fell, letting out a small yelp of pain as she scraped her knees on the ground.

  “Run! Now!” Father Eamon’s reactions were instant and Emma felt herself lifted from the pavement and propelled forward.

  There was a rustle of wings as the raven reappeared, its call cutting through the air. Within seconds the temperature rose again and the mist came billowing back towards them. The skeletal creatures broke cover, this time moving at speed, racing quickly down the road trying to close the distance between them.

  Emma’s chest burned as she fought for air. A pins-and-needles sensation was setting in to her forearms and legs; her body was starting to let her down.

  Father Eamon gave her a push. “Nearly there.”

  Emma forced her adrenaline soaked body down the road, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She slipped again and fell forward, regaining her balance just in time to see the first of her pursuers close in on her, a victorious look written across its face. Emma raised her arms in a vain defensive gesture only to feel herself being dragged backwards through a narrow stone archway that provided a gap in a long, low wall.

  The thing recoiled before the stone gate as the raven gave out an angry cry at having been cheated of its prey. Father Eamon stepped back through the gateway, confronting them.

  “She cannot be touched! You know this! You know the penalties for transgression. Leave now and we will say no more about this. Stay, and there will be trouble.”

  His voice was a low growl and it had the desired effect, the creatures and the raven reluctantly retreating. Father Eamon stood his ground until they had been consumed back into the mist, leaving just the raven to disappear down a side street with a departing cry.

  Once again the temperature dropped, causing Emma to shiver uncontrollably. She watched as Father Eamon came towards her through the archway before turning to take in her new surroundings. She was in a small, raised garden surrounded by a stone wall topped by iron railings. In the centre, the outstretched canopy of an ancient oak provided cover that sent out deep shadows over the neatly manicured lawn. A row of Silver Birches, providing an unbroken border around the outside of the garden, kept the dark at bay. Through all this weaved a path of rough paving slabs that finished at a door. The door led into a narrow tower at the far corner of the garden.

  “Welcome to the sanctuary, Emma.” Father Eamon was standing by the oak. “We should get inside.”

  Emma looked back at the archway through which she had been dragged. “Why? Are those things coming back?”

  “No, but even if they did, they would not be able to reach you here. This is off limits to them and they know better than to try and force entry.”

  Emma wanted to ask who they were but she’d had enough of asking questions for now. Particularly ones that had a nasty habit of having answers she did not want to hear.

  Father Eamon motioned for her to follow as he started up the broken pathway. Emma trod warily towards the tower. The closer they got, the more she could see that it was in desperate need of some tender loving care. The pitted brickwork was kept in place by thick, grey mortar that was crumbling in places. A single step from the path led up to the door, its heavy, splintered body framed in dirty white stone. In the middle of it was a large iron knocker. Father Eamon took hold of it and rapped twice on the dark wood before stepping back.

  “Shall we go in?”

&
nbsp; The door opened and he guided Emma through. As she crossed the threshold, Emma saw Father Eamon throw an anxious look over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Sanctuary

  Emma found herself in a low-beamed entrance to a hall much larger than the tower she had entered. The warm smell of cedar wood and damp earth that filled her nose made a pleasant change from the cold outside. She heard Father Eamon close the door behind her and turned to see the half-smile from earlier back on his face. He placed an arm on her shoulder and nodded towards the low light ahead of them.

  Once out of the entrance, Emma found herself surrounded by roughly hewn oak columns, which ran around the hall forming an oval. Between them were benches, which rose five high to the back wall. Light poured in through high casements, bathing everything in a pale glow. They also gave the people sitting on the benches a haunted look, turning their shadows into thin and wraithlike strips, stretching across the dusty floor. Young and old, male and female, they were all looking at her, curious eyes watching as she stood there, unsure what to do next. The younger ones were dressed in everyday jeans, T-shirts and jumpers. The older ones were in more formal suits and dresses.

  Emma looked at one old man, his grey suit immaculately pressed, hunched in to a huddle with a woman half his age. She couldn’t hear what he was saying but his body language and the hushed tone of the conversation spoke of closely held secrets. To his left Emma saw a woman, no older than she was and dressed in jeans and a jumper, doing the same thing with a heavily bearded man.

  Emma turned to Father Eamon, “What is this place?”

  “‘Tis the main hall of the sanctuary. This is where you will stay whilst we sort out what happens to you.”

  Emma’s stomach contracted at his words. “What do you mean whilst we sort out what happens to you?”

  Father Eamon paused for a second before answering. “This is a place for second chances, Emma - a place where you can decide your own fate.”

  “Decide my own fate? You’re telling me, my fate wasn’t my own to start with?”

  Father Eamon smiled at Emma’s response, “In good time I will tell you everything that you need to know. To rush it would be to do you a great disservice.”

  “So when are you going to tell me?” Emma was torn between a burning desire to know everything and the feeling that she would be better off not knowing anything at all. But she was also in no hurry to step back outside. At least here she felt safe.

  “In time. Right now, we should get you acquainted with your new home.”

  Emma looked around her. There was inviting warmth to the place and it was hard not to take an instant liking to it compared to what she had just been through. She followed Father Eamon into the sanctuary. The people who had watched her arrival had now gone back to what they were doing before. Some were sitting silently on their own, others seemed deep in conversation. She sat down on a bench, rubbing her legs, trying to massage them back to life. “If I’m dead, how come I’m tired?”

  Father Eamon sat down next to her. “Whilst you’re here, you’ll feel all the things you did when you were alive, you will breathe, you will sweat, you will feel all the emotions you felt before, including fear. Where you are now is the twilight world. You’ll stay here for a while but once you move on, these things will pass.”

  “How long will that be?” She was too tired to be impatient but she hated the way he left things hanging in the air.

  “That is for tomorrow, Emma. Everything will be explained to you in full, I promise, but you need to be fully rested first.”

  Emma looked at Father Eamon with a wry smile. “Yeah, because I’m going to sleep after everything that’s happened.”

  Father Eamon returned the smile. “Believe me when I say, Emma. Sleep will overtake you soon enough. Let me take you to your room.”

  “I have a room?”

  “You do. It’s above this hall. Come.” They rose and headed over to a side door that was just off the main hall. The door opened when Father Eamon approached, as if expecting him. Emma followed him through and found herself in a twisting stairwell. The inner wall was whitewashed while, on the outer wall, Emma saw lead-framed windows interspersed at regular intervals. She looked out on the garden and the half-lit world beyond.

  At the top of the stairs, Emma found herself in a dark corridor that ran into the distance. Torches, jutting out from iron holders, ignited as Father Eamon passed, their naked flames illuminating white walls, broken up by a series of heavy wooden doors. Exposed oak beams, weathered with age, criss crossed the air above her. Emma followed Father Eamon until he stopped and turned to face a door.

  “Ah, here we are.”

  Two words were etched into the wood. The writing was runic and nearly illegible but Emma knew what it said. Just above the doorknocker was her name, Emma Elliott, immaculately carved.

  Father Eamon stood to one side. “Please, after you.”

  Emma approached the door and grabbed the knocker; she twisted it clock-wise but nothing happened. She tried it anti-clockwise and it turned smoothly. The door gave way, opening inwards.

  Stepping inside she found herself transported back to an earlier, happier time. In front of her was her bedroom. On the far right was a bed with a writing desk next to it. This was complimented by a dressing table and cuddly toys, which spilled off shelves set into a recess in the opposite wall. Posters of Soul Asylum and INXS were plastered haphazardly on the wall next to them and were threatening to collapse on to the small portable television below.

  Emma felt the give of the deep red carpet below her feet and closed her eyes, remembering the many long hours of her childhood spent lying on it.

  Taking a large battered blue teddy bear off the top shelf and pulling it into her chest, Emma turned to Father Eamon. “God, how did you know?”

  “Does it meet with your approval?”

  “It’s just like I remember it.”

  For the first time since she had found herself standing at the roadside, Emma felt safe or at least something coming close to that.

  “This is how it was on the 3rd of July 1993. Do you remember that day?”

  A smile passed across Emma’s face. My fifteenth birthday.

  “This is where you’ll be staying whilst you’re here. Only you can open this door, Emma. No one can get in here without your express permission.”

  Emma looked over and saw that Father Eamon was still standing in the doorway.

  “And that includes me.”

  “Please, come in.” The words rushed out as she realised he was waiting to be asked in.

  Father Eamon walked in and pulled out the chair by the writing desk. He turned it to face Emma and sat down, waiting for her to sit on the bed.

  “Emma, you are about to enter a very trying period. I know you have questions but I want you to hold onto them until tomorrow. Can you do that?”

  Emma pulled the bear in tighter. “If I have to.”

  “This is a time where you will be tested. You have arrived in a place where many, many people have been before you and many will come after you. There are things of which the living are oblivious and to which their eyes are only opened after they pass on. For some it is too late by then but for the majority it is a revelation. For you, I think, it is an opportunity. All I ask is that you wait until tomorrow before I continue. Will you allow me that?”

  Emma was already finding herself drifting off as she struggled to comprehend everything Father Eamon said. She let out a low yawn. “I guess so.”

  “All that has happened today will become clear over time, of that you can be sure. This is just the beginning of a long journey that you must undertake but you can be sure that you will never be alone.”

  Emma didn’t know what to say, instead choosing to sit on the bed and watch as Father Eamon stood up and placed the chair back under the desk.

  “I have to go now, there are things I need to do; but we will talk tomorrow.�
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  She watched as he left the room, resisting the impulse to grab onto him and force him to stay, before getting up to close the door only to see it close on its own. She sat down, looking at it.

  Hmm, nice trick.

  Emma got up to open it and watched as it opened itself in front of her. She went to close it, only for the door to shut before she had put her first foot forward.

  Ah, I see, nice of him to explain. She pictured the door opening in her mind and, on cue, the door obliged.

  Wait until tomorrow, huh? Typical.

  She was about to will it to close again, bored of this new game, when she heard voices in the corridor. The voices sank to a whisper so Emma crept outside. A torch on the wall came on and she hopped back in to her room as it went out again. She leaned through the doorway and strained to catch the words.

  Fragments of a hurried conversation drifted towards her. She recognised one voice as Father Eamon’s. A second man was questioning him.

  “…What is this I hear about the Gentle Men?”

  Father Eamon’s reply was hesitant. “Something wasn’t right. They’ve never gone for an initiate before. I do not know why they would take that chance. They know what they risk in doing that.”

  “This is a new development. What did you make of her?”

  “She’s strong, but she doesn’t realise it. I’ve spent days coaxing people out of denial, but she came around quickly.”

  There was a pause before Emma heard the other man respond.

  “Interesting…very interesting. We need to proceed carefully. How will she cope with her trial?”

  “I do not know. It worries me, though. If they were willing to take those chances before she arrived here, what are they going to do when she goes back out?”