Phil’s head was spinning. “No good guys or bad guys, then? If each needs human life, what’s the bloody point of it all?”
“The Elder is different. He is a primal, terrible force of inhuman power, but he isn’t evil. The sacrifice he demands is a willing one, to counter the unwilling sacrifices made to Andraste. I believe his role is one of guardianship rather than destruction.
“Jason Franklin was chosen to perform The Elder’s task…not because of his unusual talent, but because he’s closely related to one of the Fellows. Being the child - or descendant - of Andraste’s followers gives you a certain power. A power that can vanquish her for good…if the bearer of that power lays down his life. Make no mistake: Jason Franklin was willing to die that night. If he seems disturbed to you, it’s because that power has driven him mad.”
“The son of Andraste’s follower…but is the head porter part of the Council?”
Freeland closed his eyes. “Jason is not the son of the head porter.”
“So who is he? And why has Franklin been made out to be his father?”
“Jason doesn’t know. I suspect he’s the son of one of the Council. One of the Fellows had a fling with a woman, wasn’t careful…so when the child was born its death was faked and given to a trusted servant of All Souls to raise as his own.
“One of the conditions of joining the Fellowship is to remain unmarried, and more importantly childless. They believe, just as the druids believed, that having children weakens your devotion to your duty…takes some of your strength away.”
“Makes you more human!” Phil spat, thinking of his own child, how he would die before anyone laid a finger on his head.
Freeland shrank. “The devotion to Andraste has to be total…if that weakens, her power weakens. Jason is proof of that. A child of a follower…becomes a threat.”
“So how come it’s taken so long for The Elder to find someone to stop the killings? Why did he only come close this year?”
“No, he came close quite a few times…the closest being the year 1799 when the Master of All Souls himself, Charles Harvey, converted to The Elder. That was when the meteor struck, setting fire to many of the college buildings.”
“The Divine Judgment - another weapon of The Elder?”
“Maybe…but it wasn’t enough. Charles Harvey tried to kill himself by throwing himself into the fire. He saw it as a sign that he had finally switched to the path of righteousness. I’d like to say he died contented, but the rest of the Council pulled him from the flames. To them, the meteor strike was proof of Andraste’s anger - a punishment for their election of someone who converted to her enemy. So they made sure his suffering was terrible enough to appease her anger. That is why Searles is so afraid and unable to confide in those around him. He knows he weakened once last year - the propitiation was not completed in line with the full instruction last year, and the Fellows will not hesitate to revisit Harvey’s fate upon him if he fails again.”
“Jesus Christ,” Phil whispered.
Freeland looked tired. “Christ can’t help you. Read through the files, Mr Lotson. They’ll give you the full details.”
Phil leant over and pulled the archive storage box towards him. It was heavy. He rested a shaking hand on the lid.
“Details. I suppose the full extent of the ritual is described in here as well.”
Freeland cringed, his once-powerful shoulders hunching inwards.
Phil took that as a yes. He tapped the lid. “If what I have here is proof that the Fellows of All Souls are engaged upon some act of systematic murder you’ll have to face the music with the rest of them, give evidence at the trial…stand trial yourself.” His eyes were cold.
Freeland didn’t take his eyes off the floor. “I’ll take that chance,” he said in a hollow, far away voice.
Then it hit Phil. “My God. You don’t expect it to get that far, do you? You…you think you’ll die before it all comes to light?”
And now Freeland’s eyes left the carpet, meeting Phil’s with no hesitation. They were clear, calm and self-possessed.
“Mr Lotson, I don’t know what the final outcome will be, but…I know I’ll be dead before it happens.” He raised himself from the sagging chair. His shoulders weren’t so rounded anymore. He stood taller, straighter, a man who had made a decision…and been relieved of a terrible burden.
“You’re a good man, Mr Lotson. You have a good heart and a strong mind…and you have family. I know you will do the right thing.” Freeland’s smile was a sad farewell.
“Professor…James. I really don’t know what to say.”
Freeland shook his hand. “Then don’t say anything. Goodbye, Mr Lotson.”
* * * * *
James Freeland felt the door close behind Lotson rather than hear it. He was alone again.
But…not really alone. Not for long, anyway. He picked up the framed photo of his graduation ceremony and tried to reconcile the smiling, jubilant young man with the broken, jaded and tainted old man he was now. He couldn’t do it. The face staring back at him wasn’t just from another life, it was from another world. But the face of his mother…now that was eternal.
He replaced the photo with a heavy sigh of contentment. It was over for him now. Philip Lotson carried his burden. The moment he saw the photos, he’d know.
And that would be when the danger would start for the Lotson family. Freeland regretted that, but there was no other way.
He walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. Below, in the halogen lit courtyard the blue Rover Lotson climbed into looked like a toy. It all looked surreal, he mused. The slightly overweight figure, struggling into a toy car with proof of an evil thousands of years old and so cunning that it had deceived countless generations of good and intelligent men and made them into monsters, hardly looked like a sacred messenger. But who was he to question?
He shook his head as he inspected the window frame. Amazing. The Council should have replaced these frames years ago with ones that were impossible to open fully. How many suicides had there been in this area because of that?
Will one more make any difference? Will it change matters? Of course not, but that’s not important now.
He felt a surge of guilt as he placed one slippered foot on the ledge. Cowardice. Surely he was obliged to stay and see how the matter ended? Small recompense for his crimes: but a gesture nonetheless. The blue Rover drove out of the pool of light and into the darkness. Freeland waited until the sound of its engine faded before swinging his other leg onto the ledge.
Because at the end of the day it was all about choice. He hadn’t told Lotson that The Elder had chosen another to assist Jason. That other may well believe, but that didn’t mean he would be strong enough to perform what was necessary. Far better to end it now, to take his chances with whatever judgment awaited him on the other side, than to remain and witness the full horror of Andraste’s triumph.
The bitter wind whipped his trouser legs, the baggy corduroy material flapping like ship sails. He took a deep breath. The courtyard below him waited like a welcoming blanket.
“I hope you’re stronger than I was…” the name he uttered after those words was snatched away by the wind. His grip loosened on the window frame.
The forecourt didn’t rush at him with the speed of a bullet, as he’d expected. Rather it drifted slowly, leisurely up to him and allowed him to consider one more thing. The words his mother had said to him, growing up. It seemed cruel of his subconscious to remind him of it now - perhaps a final subliminal attempt to punish him.
Make your mark on the world, Jimmy!
The sodium vapour-lit concrete grew larger and Freeland smiled in anticipation. For a moment, he was sure the words were spoken now, whispered into his ear by his mother who eagerly awaited a reunion with her son. Or it may have been the wind again.
Make your mark on the world, son.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In the Senior Combination Room David Searles looked st
eadily at the assembled Fellows. For once he felt calm and in control, with none of the fear or weakness usually associated with him in the eyes of the Council. They, on the other hand, all looked shaken. Pallid complexions and dark rings under their eyes. In spite of the liberal measures of port and brandy, very few of them would sleep well tonight. Or rather, this morning. The ornate wall clock told Searles it was half past midnight.
Fortunate indeed that the Senior Members of All Souls were obliged to maintain the ancient tradition of remaining single. No wives to make hurried excuses to, no children to reassure…
Apart from one. Searles dispelled the thought from his mind immediately. This was no time for weakness, for self-doubt. Andraste had commanded. They had to obey.
It was still an incredible sight for them all to behold. For the voice of Andraste to speak through the crucified…but that hadn’t been the first time he’d witnessed it. He’d seen it last year. Just him and John Franklin, alone in the chapel. After the police had come and questioned all the members of the Council and dragged Jason away.
Dragged to safety. Andraste can’t have him now.
That’s what he’d thought when he left the SCR that night, to walk alone to the chapel. A sense of relief mingled with the shock of the evening’s events. The taste of the boar flesh still in his mouth, rank and gamey. The liberal measures of brandy did nothing to take that away. He didn’t know why he’d sought solace in the chapel. He had abandoned his Christianity years ago when he had Communed with Andraste, and saw the true nature of all things.
Now, he watched the Bursar drain his third brandy and narrowed his eyes. Simon Davies had been very disturbed recently, and it wasn’t all due to the stress of his workload. His reaction to the animated Christ had been far more severe than theirs. Davies met his eyes and averted his gaze, and didn’t see the Master’s glare soften.
Yes, Bursar. I know what’s shaken you. And I can’t say I blame you. I remember all too well, when I saw it last year…
Staring at the physical image of Christ’s Passion, he had felt a kindling in his soul. Perhaps God was trying to tell him something? He had stared into the agonised, despairing eyes, painted an impossible blue. A blue that seemed to glisten and shine, as though the eyes were welling up with tears.
And then John Franklin had entered, and sat down in the pew opposite, uninvited.
Does God weep, Franklin? Searles had asked, without taking his gaze from Christ’s agonised, despairing eyes.
Not for us, Master. The tears shed are our own. Then it began.
The agonised expression of the crucified Christ turning to a mocking smile of triumph…the painted rivulets of blood trickling from the nail wounds becoming real, liquid rivers of crimson that dripped onto the floor and steamed in the cold night air…the burning eyes of the figure, blazing a hate filled accusation accompanied by harsh words spoken in that oh-so seductive female voice.
You are my Abraham. He is your Isaac. You have failed to give him unto me.
He had screamed then. Screamed and ran to the carving, beating it with his hands. He remembered the feeling of soft, emaciated flesh and hard bone beneath his feeble blows, and only Franklin had stopped him from trying to pull the crucifixion from its wall mountings.
You are my Abraham. He is your Isaac. You will give him unto me. Next year, Searles. I will have him then.
Even the head porter had looked shocked by the transformation from painted wood to animated, living, breathing flesh. The only time the Master had seen John Franklin scared. Searles often wondered what would have happened if Franklin hadn’t had his hands full trying to restrain him. Would he have run in fear? Would he have broken down like he himself had done?
Searles would never know. The minute he had begun to compose himself the familiar cold, machine-like self control of the head porter had reasserted itself. As the blood faded from the floor and the heaving of the pierced torso slowed and froze to lifeless wood once more, Franklin sat silently in the pew, his eyes never leaving Searles.
He made it clear that this was Searles’ fault. This was the result of disobeying Andraste. Franklin had exhaled noisily, an audible and visible sign of relief. And then explained that Andraste had been merciful. Had given them all -Searles in particular - a second chance.
But Searles had seen the visitation as a personal affront to him, Andraste mocking his once-cherished Catholicism. What was it Freeland had said? She uses the things you hold so dear against you.
Searles sipped his brandy, relishing the warmth burning down his throat. Now they had another problem. That man, Hughes - he’d obviously battled one of the Children of Andraste, and survived. He’d been sent to look for something, that much was obvious. He was a co-worker or friend of that Granta driver who was here yesterday, who was seen with the Selected in the bar. Perhaps he was looking for them.
At least Hughes hadn’t made it into the cellars below the chapel. If the propitiation had been disrupted, Andraste’s wrath would have been terrible to behold. And yet…as he watched Hughes run, pushing past Tom Ellis, through the porter’s lodge and out onto Trinity Street he knew Hughes would be here again. Steps would have to be taken to prevent that. For that they would need Franklin.
Searles saw the door open behind him. Franklin entered, shaking fresh snow from his jacket. He nodded once to the Master and went to stand at the far corner of the room, next to the Senior Tutor. He saw Franklin whisper something into Nasen’s ear. Nasen nodded slowly, and they both looked at the Master.
“Mr Franklin. I trust your trip was…successful?”
Franklin narrowed his eyes in response to Searles’ dry words.
“Well enough, Master. Judith Cox has been dealt with.”
“On the Senior Tutor’s instruction,” Searles snapped. “Not mine.”
“There was no time - ‘
“Once again, I was not consulted!” Searles’ eyes blazed as they swept the room. “I was not informed that the Bursar’s secretary had a visitation…but I hold the Senior Tutor accountable for that. May I remind you, gentlemen, that you all have a duty to inform me of what is occurring. Twice now you have all failed to do so…I can only assume this Council is deliberately excluding me from matters relating to the increase of Andraste’s power.”
Hurried, guilty looks passed between the assembled Fellows. Franklin folded his arms tightly and glared at Searles.
“Nor is this the only thing that has been kept from me.” Searles kept his voice calm, even. “It would appear the whisperings have no longer confined themselves to The Selected…have they, Bursar?”
Davies looked up in shock. His mouth gaped. He glanced angrily behind him. Nasen’s face was impassive.
“Judith Cox told Franklin about your conversation earlier. That you have heard the whisperings also. A momentary weakness? No matter, others have heard it also. No longer will we be able to pass this off as ‘voices in the head’ of the mentally disturbed, as we did with Jason Franklin and James Freeland.”
“So Andraste’s voice has grown more powerful, and is now heard by the Unselected. This is nothing to be overly concerned with, Master. It will cease when she has her offering.” The Bursar straightened his tie with shaking fingers, his words an attempt to convince himself rather than the Master.
“Her power would not be as strong if she had been given the offering she demanded last year.” Franklin’s words cut like a knife.
The stunned silence in the SCR was a tangible, physical presence. Searles straightened and narrowed his eyes.
“You forget your place, Franklin.”
“No Master, you forget yours.” Franklin unfolded his arms and walked steadily towards the Master. His eyes remained fixed on Searles’, neither Master nor servant looking away. A challenge.
“Jason should have been given last year, you know this. That is why Andraste mocks us. Her strength - and her anger - grows, Master, because the one she selected was not offered.”
“You’re wrong, Fran
klin.” Searles forced himself to remain strong. To forget the exchange in the chapel last year.
You are my Abraham. He is your Isaac. You will give him unto me.
“Andraste has demanded another, and another will be given. That will secure her for another year, I am certain. We may not have time to fulfil the Communion with the third offering, but the soul will be enough.
“Andraste demanded something else, Franklin. You do not know because you were…occupied elsewhere.” Disgust filled his words. The assembled members of the Council murmured amongst themselves, none of them able to forget what they’d seen and heard in the chapel this evening.
“Why is this man Hughes so alarming to her? Simple. The resemblance to Harvey is uncanny. Mr Franklin, I believe you told me earlier that fifteen years ago he looked vaguely similar, but now he is the same age as Harvey was when he succumbed to The Other there can be no doubt. He is walking, breathing proof that Woodcock’s child survived. The blood of Harvey runs in his veins. And we know what Charles Harvey tried to do to All Souls.”
Searles let that piece of information sink in. They suspected, they knew. Fifteen years ago, when Hughes had murdered those two men in the bar, it was not apparent. But that act had kept him away from All Souls, kept him from…
Fulfilling his destiny? Searles pondered. Acting on the orders of The Other? And now he’s here…and even Andraste is scared of him.
Perhaps there was hope after all. But there was one other thing to tell them…
“You may not be aware that this Hughes character is friends with the writer Philip Lotson. Lotson is his former tutor.” That caused a reaction. He saw their eyes narrow, faces grow hostile. Because I invited him to an interview here without your approval.
“Lotson went to see Jason Franklin this evening. How he managed that is immaterial. What is important is that he went to see James Freeland tonight. And Freeland killed himself less than an hour ago.”
Stunned silence met his words. Only Franklin looked unsurprised by that. Searles leant back in the armchair, the green leather squeaking. He steepled his fingers and waited for the next member of the Council to speak.
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