Siding Star

by Christopher Bryan

  It would be good to spend a little time in quiet. He would go into the church.

  He negotiated the Holborn Circus traffic, was sworn at by a taxi driver (justifiably, he suspected), and found himself facing a handsome blue notice board with gold-painted lettering. “Holy Eucharist 1:10 p.m. weekdays.” Good.

  He entered by the south entrance, looked around him in astonishment, saw the priest in a black cassock, and fainted.

  seventy-three

  A few minutes later.

  Someone fetched Jim, and between them they easily enough had the young man propped up in a pew.

  “Is he drunk?” Jim said. “Drugs?”

  Michael smelt his breath, then lifted an eyelid and looked at

  the pupil.

  “Neither, I think. He just fainted. Look, he’s coming round.”

  Charlie Brown blinked. He was seated. The priest was looking into his face. And there was no mistaking his face. It was the face of the man in his dream. And beyond the priest was the great hall— lofty pillars, cream and gold; magnificent black and white floor- ing, like a chessboard. St Andrew’s, Holborn Circus.

  “How do you feel? Are you all right?” The priest was talking to him. Asking the questions anyone might ask. Slowly it dawned on Charlie that he had fainted. He struggled upright, and the conventional reactions of one who hates to cause a fuss came instantly to him.

  “I’m so sorry. I seem to have just blacked out. Stupid of me. Yes—thanks. I think I’m fine now. Maybe I could just sit here for a bit?”

  “Of course you may. Unless you’d rather be somewhere quieter. Would you like to go to the vicarage? We’re just going to have the service here.”

  “Yes. The Eucharist. Weren’t you just going to have Eucharist? That’s what I came for.”

  The priest smiled.

  “We were. And if you’re sure you’re comfortable, we will. Maybe we can have a word afterwards?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “Good. Jim—would you mind lighting the candles? We’re a bit late.”

  The priest went to the vestry. Jim lit the candles. The small congregation went to their places—not without covert glances at their new neighbor—and the service began.

  As it proceeded, Charlie felt calm returning. By the time of the consecration he seemed to have quite recovered, and a few minutes later he went up with the others to receive communion.

  After the service he remained in his place until the priest came back. He got to his feet and held out his hand.

  “Father—thank you for your kindness. My name is Charles Brown. Charlie. I teach at the university.”

  “And I’m Michael Aarons. You can see what I do!”

  “I can. And I’d like to have that word afterwards, please. I think I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course. Do you drink coffee? Or tea? Have you eaten? Come to the vicarage. Let’s see what we can find.”

  As Michael Aarons led the way through the church, Charlie realized that he was ravenously hungry. So he needed little persuading to the plate of sandwiches that was soon set on the table beside him in the study.

  The priest fetched his own sandwiches and coffee, and then placed himself in the armchair opposite.

  “What would you like to talk about, Charlie?”

  During the service, Charlie had resolved to tell about his

  siding stAr 307

  dream. Yet now he came to it, he was less sure. Surely the priest must think his story preposterous? “I’m afraid that what I want to tell you involves a recurrent dream of mine—a dream that on the face of it sounds ridiculous.”

  The priest smiled.

  “Most dreams do… on the face of it. But why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself first? Give your ridiculous dream a con- text. If you like.”

  Charlie liked. In fact it made things a good deal easier. He said something of his work as a teacher in the University of London, even a little about Mickey the cat and Natalie. Finally he came to the dream. His questioner was bent forward, eyes fixed on him, fingertips together as Charlie told him how the dream had recurred when he was a child, then declined in frequency, and now, recently, recurred.

  He described it.

  “And the fact is,” he said, “it’s this church. And it’s you. I’ve never been here in all my life before today. Yet there I was leaving W. H. Smith’s, and the bell rang, and I walked across and decided to come. And it’s you. It really is you. In my dream, you’re always telling me there’s something I must do. And in the dream that “You must” is terrifying, because I believe you but I don’t know what it is I’m to do. And there’s always something dark and menacing behind you. Here, there isn’t. But can you make any sense of it? Or do you just think I’m going around the bend?””

  “No, I don’t think that. And I think the dream may be telling you something important.”

  Michael Aarons paused, then looked sharply at him.

  “Charlie, I’d like your permission to risk something with you.”

  “Please Father, risk away.”

  “I want to make a very impertinent suggestion. I want to suggest that a great disturbance has entered your life recently. I don’t mean the sad loss of Mickey—something I sympathize with since I’ve lost a couple of cat friends myself over the last year. Nor am I talking about your American friend. She’s obviously disturbing you but you’re obviously enjoying it! No, I mean something else. Something… menacing? A serious threat? A danger? Am I in any way correct?”

  Charlie was astonished. He’d skirted—successfully, he’d thought—the whole business of Siding Star, only now to find himself apparently transparent to Michael Aarons.

  “Well—yes, you’re right. But I’m in a difficulty.”

  Michael waited.

  “The fact is, I’m pledged. The Official Secrets Act. I’ve given my word. Signed a paper.”

  “That’s clearly a serious matter.” Michael hesitated. “Of course I’m talking about the moral part of it. Revealing the affair to me would also presumably involve you in a legal offense.”

  Charlie, who had taken some interest in the subject, nodded.

  “A misdemeanor under Section Two, I gather.”

  “Exactly.” The priest hesitated again. Then, “Well, I can only say this—there does seem to me to be a certain imperative about your dream as well. And I have the feeling your dream and your secret are linked. Otherwise why would the dream start to come again when the secret emerged —which I take was the case?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “But you say your dream involves me. In which case, I think you may have to choose between what the Official Secrets Act tells you to do and what your dream tells you to do. I can’t tell you how to choose. But I do think you may have to make such a choice. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “In case it’s any help, I might remind you that an ethical norm isn’t the same as a moral rule. Of course things like telling the truth and keeping our promises are ethical norms—apart from anything else, society can’t really function without them.

  “But anyone who understands anything about ethics also

  Siding Star 309 knows that it doesn’t follow that, say, telling the truth is also an unbreakable moral rule that you must keep when—say—a maniac with a gun is asking you where your baby daughter is so he can kill her. In that case two ethical norms—telling the truth and protecting the weak—would be in conflict. So to find the moral thing to do in that case you’d have to choose one of the two ethical norms, since you obviously couldn’t keep them both. Well, you may have to do that here.” He almost smiled. “But I’m sure you knew all that.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Charlie shook his head. “I didn’t, actually. That’s a helpful distinction. But as you say—I still have to choose. Look, at the moment I honestly don’t know. I must think about it. May I do that—and telephone you?”

  “Excellent.” The doorbell rang. “And there, I think, is some

  o
ne I’ve promised to see.”

  Charlie got to his feet.

  “Now, are you quite sure you feel well enough to go out?

  You can certainly stay here longer if you need to.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Really. I’m not usually a wilting violet. And

  I’ve got a pile of students’ papers to read through, so I ought

  to be getting back. And thank you—for everything. I’ll think

  about this. And I’ll telephone you.”

  “I look forward to it. In the meantime I’ll pray for you,

  Charlie.”

  seventy-Four

  The same day.

  Charlie Brown departed—presumably to his university— and Michael went to his visitor, another young man sent to him by the Rector of St. Dunstan’s, Stepney. He spent an hour with him, arranged to see him again in a week’s time, then showed him out into the sharp, windy day. As often, he’d found the time of counsel and prayer exhilarating rather than tiring. There was something about the sight of a troubled person struggling to be absolutely honest that never ceased to fill him with respect for the human spirit—even with awe.

  Back in his study, he took out the Guardian. Yet again, it contained an article about East London that disturbed him. No violent outbreaks, no power outages, but disturbing nonetheless. The brand new Cranston College of College of Engineering and Technology was receiving substantial private grants from the Academy for Philosophical Studies.

  So the fire on All Hallows’ Eve had inconvenienced the acad - emy, but it hadn’t stopped them.

  As for Cranston College itself, Michael had heard some odd things about the place, even before he knew it was connected to the Academy. There was, in particular, the story that a priest friend in Limehouse had told him about two of her

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  ChristoPher BryAn parishioners—young men, brothers, who’d been working on the building site for the new college. Their mother said they’d told her about part of the site’s being sealed off, no one allowed to go there because it was dangerous. An old tomb or something, they thought, but the college authorities were very cagey about it. The boys went out the next evening and while at the pub laughed and talked about the tomb, said they were going to visit it, see what the mystery was. Several people heard them—but no one had seen them since. The police had turned up nothing at Cranston, and Michael’s friend backed up the mother’s conviction that they would never have gone off without telling her.

  A new thought struck him. A lot of the East End’s troubles, the violence and the power failures, seemed to be centered in the area around Cranston College. Was he seeing a pattern or obsessed to the point of seeing patterns where none existed? He sighed. Cecilia was interested in the academy and wonderfully competent. He really ought to talk to her about it. She’d challenge him if he was letting his imagination run away with him. And if not, well, she had all sorts of resources.

  Within a few days the college was to be opened officially. The first full intake of students wasn’t planned until the autumn, but in the meantime fifty or so research and overseas students were being allowed preliminary use of some facilities. The opening itself promised to be quite an occasion, including a speech by the Minister of Education. The many distinguished guests included the Venerable Michael Aarons, Archdeacon of Hackney. The invitation stood, copperplate engraving, gilt edges and all, in the middle of his mantel, addressed to “The Venerable and (they assumed!) Mrs. Michael Aarons.”

  He’d already decided to attend. Perhaps he would learn something.

  So what then of his notion of consulting Cecilia? Should he wait to do that until after his visit? Until perhaps he had more to go on? Or should he talk to her now? And then it came to

  siding stAr 313 him. He’d invite Andrea and Rosina for a weekend visit— which would be pleasant anyway—and suggest that they bring Cecilia if she was free.

  He turned to the telephone and punched in the Exeter code.

  seventy-Five

  The same day.

  “N

  o, I’m not on duty this weekend,” Cecilia said when Mama called her to the phone. “Thank you, Michael! Figaro and I accept with pleasure.”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to you again about the matter you

  raised with me on your last visit.”

  “Oh, really? So you too are having thoughts about the opening of Cranston College?”

  “That’s very clever of you. I’m actually going to it on Friday

  evening. They sent me an invitation, and I thought I ought to go

  and see what I could see.”

  “Verity Jones told me about it—the opening, I mean, not

  your invitation! She showed me an article in last week’s Hackney

  Gazette. But it was your being so very solemn about…” (she

  mimicked his voice) “‘the matter I raised with you on my last

  visit’ that made me guess it was that.”

  Michael chuckled. One of the sadnesses of his life was that

  people so rarely made fun of him—or at least, not to his face. “The fact is,” she said, “I was meaning to talk to you about

  it and would have done sooner, but we’ve just had the week

  from hell here and I haven’t had a minute. Still, if you’ve got an

  official priestly invite to the opening I certainly think it’s a good

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  ChristoPher BryAn idea for you to go and see if you can discover any evil works.” Her tone grew more serious. “Actually, Michael, I’ve tried in a general way to alert a couple of colleagues in the Met about the academy—but it’s hard for them to do anything when they don’t know what to look for and I don’t even know what to tell them to look for.”

  Michael told her about the two young men who had vanished. “Any thoughts, Detective ?”

  “It’s an academy kind of story, isn’t it—nothing concrete! Still,

  I can inquire how the investigation’s going. It’ll be Shoreditch and Hackney. You never know.”

  “I’d appreciate that very much.”

  seventy-six

  The same evening.

  Throughout most of the rest of Friday Charlie wrestled with his decision until time came for his usual conversation with Natalie. The call, as it turned out, was cut short. She was involved in a diplomatic conference with sessions that were going on at all hours of the day and night. The conference had been a last-minute demand, and she’d called him from the UN on her mobile. She sounded harassed.

  Throughout the evening he continued to reflect on his dilemma. For better or worse, his word once given meant a lot to him. The Foreign Office man had been right about that. Of course talking in confidence to a priest was hardly the same as “blabbing to the media” and the distinction between ethical norms and moral rules to which Michael had pointed was helpful. But at the end of the day, as Michael had also said, he still had to choose.

  He closed his eyes. Almost without realizing it, he found himself praying for guidance.

  None came—at least, none he could discern.

  It would be nice, God, if you would occasionally give a straight answer to a straight question.

  As it was, even Saint Paul had to struggle. For this thing I besought the Lord thrice…

  The words swam into Charlie’s mind. But then the reply to them came at him like a whiplash. My grace is sufficient for you.

  Yes. No doubt that was all very fine. So Saint Paul had had his problems too. But just how exactly did that help Charlie now?

  My grace is sufficient for you.

  That, it seemed, was all he was going to get. It had been good enough for Saint Paul. Apparently it would have to be good enough for him.

  At last, with some kind of peace, he went to bed.

  Hours later he was awake again, gazing at the ceiling. He looked at his watch. 4:10 a.m. A thought struck him.

  He got up, dressed quickly in a sweater and jeans, got his old Alvan Clarke s
ix-inch refractor from the cupboard above his bed, and went up onto the roof. It was a fine night. And—yes. It had risen. A red star, barely above the horizon but bright enough to be visible even through the London haze. He set up the telescope, adjusted the focus, and found himself seeing it with a clarity that shocked him. Since last he looked, it had grown, not merely in size but in authority. It pulsed. He felt like Frodo watching the Red Eye of Mordor.

  Suddenly he could endure it no more. He told himself haste was absurd, but dismantling the telescope he hastened nonetheless and was relieved to return to the warm depths below.

  He read until 6:00 a.m., then switched on the television. He fetched a glass of fruit juice and made himself a peanut butter sandwich, half listening to an actress who was opening in a new play in the West End. Then the anchors introduced an amateur astronomer who had “views” about “the supernova” (as the newspapers were calling Siding Star).

  Charlie laid aside his half-eaten sandwich and leaned forward.

  siding stAr 319 As an astronomer the man was evidently something of a crank. He quoted the Revelation of St. John the Divine (to the interviewer’s evident amusement) and proposed that the new light in the sky was Lucifer come down to earth. He spoke of the nearness of the End, of a last chance for the nations to repent. He had observed that the new star was approaching from the center of the galaxy, which he interpreted as a sign of coming judgment.

  The interviewer thanked him politely and passed on to a politician, whose concerns did not include “the supernova.”