by Louise Welsh
Magnus let go of her. ‘I can’t leave yet.’
Belle caught his arm. ‘You can’t help Jeb. Even if you manage to prove someone else killed Jacob and Henry, they’re going to execute him. He was found guilty of murdering that woman and her little girl, that’s enough for them.’
‘But he didn’t kill them.’
‘Don’t you get it? When the community voted to execute Jeb it was because we wanted justice. If you’d proved that he hadn’t killed Jacob, we would have backed down—’
Magnus interrupted her. ‘That’s not the way the law works. People are innocent until proven guilty.’
Belle held up a hand. ‘There is no law. Will and these new men will make a big deal of having right on their side, but what they really want is to prove that they’re in control. Melody cut herself and I make my collages; men like that turn their pain outwards. They want an excuse to show how strong they are by making a spectacle of executing someone. The best thing we can do is go, before they do the same to us.’
Magnus said, ‘If we leave now it will be like walking away and leaving Melody to die alone in the barn all over again.’
Belle shook her head. ‘No it won’t. I loved Melody; I don’t give a shit about Jeb.’
Thirty-Eight
Nobody ever slept in action films, but Magnus was an obsolete stand-up who had only ever shot rabbits and barn-rats. The thought of being unconscious with the strangers in the house frightened him, but he was dazed with tiredness. He left Belle in her studio with the gun, crept into his room and changed his clothes. There was no lock on his door and so he pushed the bed against it and slept, fully dressed.
His dreams were filled with noise: the hiss of the sea as it receded, dragging sand and shale in its wake, the boom of the waves as they hit the shore. He dreamed that he was chained to the seabed, trying to keep his head above an incoming tide. The sea was quick and choppy. He lifted his face to the sky, but the waves pressed on and his chains held tight, grabbing him back against the swell. A dark slab of salt water rolled over his head, filling his mouth and nose and Magnus surfaced, gasping for air.
He woke to the sound of voices and hammering. Christ. Magnus had hoped that sleep would revive him, but a shaft of sunlight had fallen across his face and he had the sensation that someone had felted the inside of his head. He lay there, hot and uncomfortable in his clothes, trying to formulate a plan, his thoughts a fuzzy choice between fight and flight.
Magnus dragged himself upright. He peeked out from behind the curtains, but the view from his bedroom fell short of the lawn and so he shuffled to a room with a better outlook. Four men were building a rough structure out of planks of pine. Their features were hidden by beards and it was hard to make out their ages, but the men were awkward with their tools and materials. Magnus guessed they were more used to communal offices and Center Parcs holidays than joinery. One of them had the slack skin and cautious gait of someone who had suddenly lost a substantial paunch. Another favoured one leg. All of them wore the blank look he had learned was caused by grief. He might only have shot rabbits and barn-rats, but watching the men on the lawn, Magnus was willing to bet the only contact they had had with guns was paintball. It was a big assumption and he had not yet set eyes on the short, well-spoken man Belle had called their leader.
The men might not be the outlaws he had feared but they had found planks of wood and were busy with their task. Magnus tried to make out what they were building. The group had none of the easy anticipation of each other’s needs he had been used to on the croft and the Italian restaurant where he had been kitchen porter. They subtly challenged each other, holding on to tools longer than needed, blocking each other’s paths. He could not hear what they were saying, but Magnus had been on the stand-up circuit long enough to recognise the stiletto stab and twist of criticism disguised as advice. It was the memory of the stale-beer-stinking comedy clubs where he had spent so many nights that made Magnus realise what they were making: a rough platform equipped with stairs. The sight of it was bewildering. Magnus wondered what kind of show the men were planning and then it dawned on him – shit, shit, shit – it was a stage for an execution. He hurried back to his room, changed his mud-spattered clothes and went in search of Father Wingate.
The old man was not in the chapel or his bedroom but Magnus heard voices in the study that had once been the butler’s refuge. He pressed his ear to the door. Father Wingate sounded composed, but his voice was grave. ‘I will offer to walk the route from his cell with him. He may not accept spiritual comfort, but regardless of his wishes I will say a prayer, committing his life to the Lord.’
An Irish voice said, ‘I would have thought he’d be headed for a warmer place.’ The stranger laughed, pleased with his joke.
Father Wingate said, ‘The devil is among us, that much is true.’
Magnus would have liked to have heard more but it was too risky, standing in the open hallway. He tried the door next to the office and discovered a large cupboard that might once have served as a pantry. He slipped inside and left the door slightly ajar. A sliver of light cut into the cupboard’s dark recess. Magnus wondered how they intended to execute Jeb and why they had gone to the trouble of making a stage. Who was the theatre for?
Cut and run, the treacherous voice whispered. Cut and run.
He was tempted to sit on the floor, but was wary of being ambushed by sleep and stood, leaning against the corner of the cupboard, his eyes trained on the small slice of hallway. Magnus was not sure how long he had been hiding there when he came to with a start. He had been in a half-doze, leaning with his face scrunched against the cupboard’s wall, listening to the faint rise and fall of voices; the distant hammering from the lawn.
The door of the office opened and Father Wingate said, ‘The house has been in continuous occupation since ancient times. It started as a simple settlement which grew into a castle. My ancestors built a manor house on the castle’s foundations some time around the 1600s. Of course it’s been much altered since then, but for centuries all the farms and homesteads in the district paid fealty to it.’
‘And it belonged to your family for all that time?’
‘Until I bequeathed it to the Church.’
‘So you speak with God as one Lord to another.’
‘No one is equal to God.’ Father Wingate’s voice was frosty.
‘You’ll have to forgive my sense of humour, Father.’ The man was unapologetic. ‘It’s not PC, but it’s helped me survive.’
Magnus caught a quick impression of dark hair and blue shirt as the stranger walked past the cupboard.
Father Wingate called, ‘Malachy?’
‘Yes?’ The man sounded impatient. He stepped back into Magnus’s line of vision. He was not as short as Magnus had anticipated, just an inch or two beneath his own height, he guessed, but stockier, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered in a way that made him look bullish and out of proportion. His blue dress shirt was more suited to a business suit than the pressed jeans he was wearing, but he had left the shirt untucked, to hide a weapon or in concession to a permanent post-apocalyptic dress-down Friday.
Father Wingate said, ‘You’ll remember to tell your men about distributing the punch? It’s always been the duty of the big house to offer some hospitality to the district. My mother used to arrange for urns of tea and fruit scones when she hosted the garden fête. Even after I handed the house over to the Church we held the occasional open day; tea for the grown-ups, orange juice for the children, that kind of thing.’
‘They’re not my men, but I’ll tell them.’
Father Wingate said, ‘I think alcohol will be the right thing on this occasion. Strong drink can be a great comfort.’
Malachy laughed. ‘I’ll say amen to that.’
Magnus waited until the sound of the newcomer’s boots had faded and then stole from the cupboard into Father Wingate’s office, closing the door gently behind him. The old man greeted him with a smile.
&
nbsp; ‘My son, we thought we had lost you.’ He slid the book in his hand back on to its shelf. ‘Have you encountered our visitors?’
‘I’ve been avoiding them.’ Magnus kept his voice low. ‘You said you’d give me time to prove Jeb innocent.’
‘Events have moved on.’
Father Wingate eased himself into the same high-backed chair he had insisted on, on the afternoon when Jacob had persuaded Magnus to stay and help with the harvest. He nodded towards an armchair.
Magnus ignored him and leaned against the desk where he could see the door. Father Wingate’s boyish smile was wide, but there was an excited edge to the priest that Magnus did not like. He said, ‘Why are you so keen to execute Jeb?’
‘I hope I’m not giving the impression of being over-eager.’ The priest was unfazed by the question. ‘Jacob acknowledged that the sweats were a sign that we should return to Old Testament times. He would approve of what we are doing.’
Jacob had used the phrase ‘Old Testament times’ in the cornfield when he had confided his doubts about Melody’s death, but he had been uneasy; weighed down by sorrow and responsibility. Magnus said, ‘Jacob might have feared a need for harsh punishment, but he would never have considered using it as entertainment. These men are building a stage on the lawn and you’re planning on serving refreshments.’
Father Wingate let out a scandalised laugh. ‘It does sound bad when you put it that way. But what you fail to recognise is that death can also be a joyous occasion.’
‘Joyous?’
‘We can incarcerate your friend indefinitely or we can grant him the opportunity to cleanse his sins and offer up his life as a sacrifice to God. Until recent times such occasions were always a public spectacle.’ Father Wingate’s voice turned grave. ‘It is a serious thing to take a life. The whole community must be involved. We are all guilty of survival.’
Magnus faltered, grasping for words the priest would understand.
‘Jeb maintains his innocence. He’s not Jesus Christ, he isn’t going to offer up his life to God. He’s more likely to go raving blasphemies.’
Father Wingate leaned forward. His face was sympathetic, as if Jeb were already dead and Magnus a bereaved relative. ‘Do not worry about your friend’s dignity. There are ways to ensure a solemn end.’
It was like talking to a madman. Magnus said, ‘What are you going to do? Hypnotise him? It’s possible that the person who really killed Jacob murdered other people too. Doesn’t that worry you?’
The old man clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. ‘Death is not as important as what comes afterwards. We had lost sight of that before God, in His mercy, chose to visit the sweats on us. I am eighty-two years old, but I remember my youth, my childhood, as if it were yesterday.’ The priest paused, as if he could see the house in full splendour. ‘Life is a blink of the eye, eternity is everlasting. Will you pray with me?’
Magnus pushed himself off the desk and stood up straight. ‘I’d rather get up on that platform with Jeb than go down on my knees with you. I didn’t agree with everything Jacob did, but he was a good man who was trying to build a community. If there’s an afterlife then he deserves to rest easy, but what you’re doing is enough to call him back from the dead.’
Father Wingate crossed his legs. ‘Jacob was a good man and he will have his resurrection, but he was only human. He believed that if we built a community people would come and join us. Malachy has taken a more dynamic approach. He has gone to the people.’
‘What people?’ Magnus had started to pace the floor, moving like he did on stage. It was a waste of energy, but anger had blasted him with adrenalin and it was impossible to sit still.
‘Malachy and his group have been touring the district looking for somewhere to settle. There are pockets of survivors all around the parish.’
‘And you think they’ll come to Jeb’s execution? The idea’s sick.’
‘When I was a boy, harvest was the most joyous festival in the countryside. It was more popular than Christmas. In those days there were fewer crops and so farms reaped them at the same time. When it was done, communities came together to worship and celebrate.’
It was like one of his father’s reminiscences. Magnus perched on the edge of the easy chair, trying to make up his mind about what to do next. The old man’s words rolled on.
‘Some corn would be taken from the final sheaf shorn and made into a corn dolly to be presented to the prettiest girl who had taken part in the harvest.’ The old man looked up, suddenly anxious. ‘Do you know what a corn dolly is?’ Magnus nodded and Father Wingate continued, satisfied that his story was making sense. ‘You can imagine the feuds that were caused by that.’ His laugh was gleeful. ‘They all wanted to be queen of the harvest.’ The priest looked at Magnus, suddenly serious. ‘You’re a country boy. You must surely understand the natural cycle of things.’
Magnus recited one of his mother’s favourite verses: ‘There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.’
Father Wingate beamed and nodded his head. ‘I knew you were a good Christian, but you forgot, “a time to tear down and a time to build”.’
Magnus said, ‘I lost my faith a long time ago, but my mother is a good Christian and she would be appalled by you.’
Father Wingate closed his eyes for a moment, as if drawing on his stock of patience. He spoke slowly. ‘If your island was subjected to the full force of the sweats, your mother might be inclined to agree with me. God has had His own harvest. It is coming to an end and we must mark it.’
Mention of his mother threw Magnus off track. He struggled to make sense of the priest’s argument. ‘You were never interested in whether Jeb was guilty or not.’
The old man nodded. His voice was soft and reasonable, as if he recognised that Magnus was a bomb that might suddenly explode. ‘You are the kind of man who needs journeys and quests. But your search for so-called justice was always a distraction doomed to failure. There is only one judge and He will weigh each of our sins in due course.’
The realisation was horrible. Magnus whispered, ‘You want to sacrifice him.’
‘That’s exactly what I said.’ Father Wingate’s smile held a boyish lack of guile. ‘We will offer up his life as a sacrifice to God.’
Thirty-Nine
Magnus was done with skulking in cupboards and passageways. He walked boldly across the lawn. One of the puppies rushed to greet him, but he ignored it and it gambolled away. The noise of banging and sawing drew to a staccato pause. Viewed from the house the four men had seemed out of kilter, but as they turned to face him Magnus wondered if they might be more united than he had thought.
He muttered, ‘Midwich Cuckoos,’ under his breath and raised a hand in greeting. A couple of the men nodded warily in response. Magnus drew close and asked, ‘Anyone in charge?’
The platform was coming along, but perhaps the men had forgotten a spirit level, because the supports were uneven and the dais listed to one side. Close to, the group had a hungry, hollow-eyed look. If Magnus had met them before the sweats he might have assumed that they were drug addicts and he wondered if that might still be the case.
One of the men said, ‘No one’s in charge,’ at the same time as another said, ‘Malachy’s not here.’
Magnus nodded, as if it were possible for both answers to be correct and asked, ‘What are you doing?’
Something caught the light in one of the high windows of the house. Tanqueray held enough deserted rooms and sly passages for generations of ghosts. He thought of Belle saying, I’m always frightened, and hoped that she was all right.
‘We’re restoring law and order.’ The tallest of the men spoke. The sun had darkened his already dark skin, but it had a dusty sheen that made it look gun-metal grey. ‘You Scottish?’<
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Magnus nodded. ‘From Orkney.’
‘Were you up there when the sweats hit?’
‘I was in London. Did you hear anything about how things are in the north?’
There were murmurs of ‘no’ and a few shaken heads. The man said, ‘The same as down here, I reckon.’
‘I’m heading in that direction, so I guess I’ll find out for myself soon enough.’ Magnus included the group in his smile. ‘Is this stage for a trial?’
‘Trial’s over.’ The tall man was unabashed. ‘The scumbag’s a child-killer who broke out of jail when the sweats started.’
A pale, thin man with the dogged look of a tax inspector said, ‘He murdered a priest.’ He pointed towards the back of the house. ‘Shot him against a wall over there.’
Magnus said, ‘Sounds like a maniac. Were there witnesses?’
‘Who are you?’ another of the men asked. He was bald and bespectacled and was holding a hammer loosely by his side.
All the men still had tools in their hands, Magnus realised, an arsenal of hammers, screwdrivers and mallets. He held his hands out palm up and said, ‘A survivor, like you.’ A door slammed. Magnus looked towards the sound and saw Malachy walking across the lawn towards them. He had the busy air of a man scoring things off his to-do list; a venue manager or a wedding planner. Magnus said, ‘So what’s the squinty stage for, if the trial’s over?’
The bald man shifted the hammer to his other hand. ‘We’re going to make an example of him.’ He was around sixty years old, dressed neatly in beige slacks and a pink, short-sleeved shirt. ‘Things need to get back to normal.’ He raised the hammer in the air, marking the beat of his words with it. ‘Thugs like him have to be shown that decent people are willing to take a stand. I had three daughters …’ His voice broke and he let the hammer fall to his side. ‘Three daughters,’ he repeated and the fat-thin man Magnus had noticed from the window put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. The bald man nodded. He walked a short distance from the group, took something from the pocket of his slacks and put it in his mouth.
