John Porter was thinking about wild horses. They couldn’t keep him away from the glory of providing the catering at Gethsemane Hall. He wished they could. The part of him that was thinking of wild horses was detached, watching. The rest of John Porter was racing the clock and pushing his staff. That Porter was buzzing with the charge of the invitation and the tug. He was going. There was no choice. But the other Porter, the one who found a small corner in which to think while running helter-skelter to the embrace of the Hall, was frightened. He was frightened because of what had happened to Roger Bellingham. He was frightened because everyone else was. He was frightened because of the nightmares. Last night, he had clawed his way out of the worst one yet, its strands sticking to him like black treacle, its tendrils burning him. He had gasped awake and seen that his wife was thrashing in the same grip. He had reached out to wake her, but as he did so, he thought he saw something in the corner of the room. He thought he saw something move. It was hunched. It idiot-nodded. It scraped across the floorboards. It had been in his dream, and it had followed him out. He yelled. His wife woke. She struck out a hand toward the bedside table and turned on the lamp. The nodding thing was visible for a second more, then disappeared. Samantha turned to him, her face haggard, and said the awful thing: “That was in my dream.”
In the morning, Richard Gray had called. Like a good vassal, Porter had said yes, of course, very honoured. And had wanted to scream. Now, rush rush rush, and oh how he wished he would slow down. He couldn’t. He could see the same strain in Samantha, in the faces of his employees. They were all going. They were sliding down the chute together. He cursed Gray. He’d been able to resist the Hall until now, though standing his ground had become the main work of each day. Gray’s explicit request was the tipping point. The Hall needed that one little bit of human agency. Gray had reached out. He could not be refused.
The party was on.
None of the faces of the guests-to-be were ecstatic. Many were curious, but not so curious that they could overcome the dread. Even the media were having their doubts. The invitation landed in their laps, a bonanza so unlikely it had not even been asked for. Were they going? They were going. But not with the enthusiasm they would have had when Gray’s investigative party had first been assembled.
“What do you think?” the reporter from the Mirror asked the photographer from the Sun. They were lounging outside the Nelson, waiting for nothing and hoping the daylight would burn away the slick of the night’s dreams.
“Bugger me sideways,” the photographer said.
Two steps away, a television crew was celebrating the morning with some heavy drinking.
DCI Kate Boulter wondered why she hadn’t had the sense to shift her arse back to London before now. Last night, she still could have left. Now, an event horizon had closed around Roseminster, with her inside. She went through the motions of turning up at the station, as if she still had an investigation that made any kind of sense. Constable Keith Walker gave her an accusatory glare as she stepped inside. “Well,” he said. “I guess you’ll find out, now, won’t you?”
“I guess I will.”
Meacham watched them arrive. One after another, the forest spat the vehicles out into the domain of the Hall. Gifford first and his partner, then the others needed to make the day complete. Sturghill had asked them if they had any reason to head back into town for more equipment. They hadn’t. They gave up on that possibility. John Porter showed up around noon, the most ashen-faced caterer she had ever seen. Meacham buttonholed him as he opened the rear doors of his van. “Did you bring everything you needed in one trip?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” he said, not really paying attention. “My wife is heading up a convoy bringing the rest.”
“That’s a shame.”
Now Porter looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
“I was hoping some necessity related to this evening’s event would take you back to town.” Porter waited for her to go on, and she said, “I thought perhaps my friends and I might catch a lift with you.”
Comprehension and fear on the man’s face. “You can’t leave?”
She shook her head. “And we’ve tried. We’re looking for any kind of loophole, now. Not to mention some way of derailing this insane party.”
Porter pulled a cell phone out of his shirt pocket.
“I wouldn’t bother,” Meacham told him, but he checked it anyway, then folded it up again slowly, slid it away.
“My wife ...” he began
“Anything at all you might have forgotten?” Meacham pressed.
Thought creased his forehead. “We could always use another cooler for the drinks.”
“Worth a shot.” She waved an arm at Sturghill and Hudson, who climbed in the back with the food. Meacham rode shotgun. Porter turned the van around and headed back up the drive. He stopped at the treeline. The yews were blocking the way. Meacham sighed. “No surprise, but at least we tried.”
Porter’s forehead was shining with sweat as he reversed. “I didn’t want to leave,” he whispered.
“I know. I don’t want to, either.”
“But I know I have to.”
“Welcome to the club, Mr. Porter.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing good.” The man was looking for reassurance. She had none to give.
A few minutes later, Samantha Porter arrived, as frightened as her husband. Gray emerged from the Hall to welcome them. Meacham watched him closely. His manner was warm, sunny. He took the edge off the Porters’ terror. He was smiles and calm words. He was weather talk. The act was very, very good. It almost fooled Meacham. The giveaways were subtle. Interrogation training had taught her to look for the telltales that the subject was lying. A recurring look to the right instead of into the eyes of the interrogator. A persistent clearing of the throat. Rubbing the nose. How does the subject inhale before answering the question? So many tells. Gray exhibited none of these. He looked the Porters straight in the eyes. There were no subconscious ticks. But he was off. It was as if there were a fraction of a second delay between his brain sending an impulse and his body reacting, as if he kept having to remind himself to interact in the here and now. His eyes met Porter’s but did not see them. His smiles were thin shellac. He was an illusion.
Porter was working himself up to a question. “I don’t mean to raise a fuss,” he said, “but I just tried to head back to town to pick up some things I had forgotten, and couldn’t. The forest, you see ...” How very politely English, Meacham thought. Hate to be a bother, but are you aware your home is cursed and that I’m afraid I might die? Still an honour to be here, though.
“It won’t let you out,” Gray said. He shook his head in commiseration, as if they were discussing potholes in the road on the way over. “I am sorry about that.” He smiled as the Porters held hands, clutching hard. “I shouldn’t worry, though. I have every reason to believe that come tonight, that will no longer be an issue.” He clapped Porter on the shoulder. Chin up, there’s a good chap. Meacham wished for a gun. “Must run,” Gray said. “Things to do.” He trotted off, back to the Hall.
Meacham followed. One thought: stop him.
Gray headed for the library to wait for Meacham. Might as well be comfortable. He had just chosen an armchair when she arrived. He gestured, inviting her to sit opposite him. She remained standing. “If you make one more phone call,” she told him, “I’ll kill you.”
He believed her. “All right,” he agreed. “No more.”
She didn’t relax. “Meaning you’ve already finished.”
He shrugged. “What can I say?”
“You can tell me why you’re trying to kill off the whole town.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“You trick everyone and their monkey’s uncle to come to a place you know they cannot leave. Yeah, I think you’re trying to kill them.”
Gray leaned forward. “So that means Roseminster is safe? That no
thing bad happens there? That no one we know was killed there recently?” Meacham was silent. “I want to know, in all seriousness, if you think that what is happening here will leave the town unscathed come the endgame.”
Meacham didn’t answer right away, but not, Gray thought, because she didn’t know what she believed. “No,” she finally said, her admission grudging, grating. She was staring at a point above his head. After a moment, she dropped her gaze to his face again. “So what are you up to?”
“I already told you.”
“Yeah. ‘I want to share.’ Cute. Cryptic. Coy. It’s a great bad-guy aphorism and it tells me absolutely nothing.”
Gray smiled. She was right. He’d been enjoying himself this morning, having real fun, and it had been a long time since that had happened. He sobered up. The fun was coming from a bad place. It was fuelled by anger. It was out of line. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was wrong of me. Listen. And sit down, please.” She hesitated. “Please,” he insisted. She sat. He leaned close. “We came here for the truth, didn’t we? Isn’t that what we all want?”
“No,” she said. “I came here to kill bad publicity and, if necessary, inconvenient truths. You know what I do for a living. I’m not on a first-name basis with the truth.”
“But you still want to know,” he said, “even if you weren’t going to reveal what really happened. If the Agency wants to spread disinformation, it first needs to know what the correct information is, doesn’t it? Your profession is intelligence. Knowledge is power. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Is that what this is about? Power?”
He snorted. For a smart woman, she could make some stupid assumptions. “Of course not. I don’t expect to leave this place alive any more than you do.”
“I’m still planning to.”
“I’m sure you are. But you don’t expect to.”
“So if this isn’t about power or survival, what then?”
“It’s about that truth,” he said, quietly. “It affects all of us, and a real truth is universal. We’re all entitled to it.”
Comprehension dawned on her face. “You’re spreading the word. You’re evangelizing.”
He hadn’t considered the term before. It struck him as all too appropriate now. He chuckled. The sound in his ears was dry and hollow. “I guess I am,” he said.
Meacham stood up. “I don’t like true believers. They’ve done plenty of damage in my country.”
“I could have sworn I saw you call on Patrick and Anna to use the power of their faith to beat back the forces of darkness.”
“And we saw how well that turned out.”
“Anyway, this isn’t a question of belief. It’s about seeing things as they really are.”
“Spoken like the worst of the true believers.”
He raised his hands in submission. “Whatever you say.”
“No more calls?”
“Or else what?” When she didn’t answer, he shrugged, letting the levity go. “No more calls,” he agreed. “No need.”
“I’d ask you to call into town and rescind the invitations....”
“... or issue dire warnings,” he suggested. “I think I would find the telephone suddenly very uncooperative.”
She nodded. “So you have your little party happening. What now?”
“I’m going to be the dutiful, attentive host.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing.” A lie. He would do what he said until it was time for the truth to come out.
The virus of the call spread. The town answered. The people accepted the invitation, consciously or not. Those who had not lived in Roseminster for too many years, who did not know the tug as well as those born and bred in the town, were more likely to think, Yes, this sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to go. It wasn’t that they weren’t frightened. They were having the dreams, too. They had heard the sounds and felt the threat in the air the night Bellingham and Corderman had been killed. But they could rationalize more easily. They took the sensation of being privileged to be invited at face value. The idea of a party at Gethsemane Hall was a good one. It was a welcome diversion from the darkness.
The older residents knew better. They looked at the invitation as a venomous snake. They knew the impulse to accept it was part of the problem. Many of them thought, No. I will not go. There. I’ve made my decision. Early in the day, that choice was easy. The people who made it felt strong. They had no reason to think they would change their minds. And they didn’t. Even as, come seven o’clock in the evening, they closed up shop and locked up home and made their way towards the Hall. Even then, they hadn’t changed their minds. They never planned to show up. They planned the reverse. They showed up all the same.
The party was all-ages. Even so, parents called on babysitters and made arrangements. Then they forgot to cancel as they took children in hand, gathered up babes in arms, and headed off for the big event. The babysitters didn’t show up at empty homes. They were on their way to the Hall, too.
The people gathered in the gardens of Gethsemane Hall. The town poured itself into the black hole. The numbers became multitudes. The gardens contained them all.
There was still plenty of daylight left. The evening was slow in coming on. But the light had taken on the end-of-day sharpness. It was tired, brittle, and would soon retreat. The sun was moving down. Not long now, and it would drop behind the trees. Darkness wouldn’t leap in just then. It would gather its strength a bit longer, send out recon forces of grey, leech out the colours, and undermine the foundations of hope. Then it would invade, cold and final.
Meacham watched the guests arrive. She had given up trying to stop them or make them turn back or take her out with them. Sturghill hadn’t surrendered yet. Meacham could see her still running from one new arrival to another, to another, to another. She didn’t think Sturghill had any more hope than she did. The magician simply couldn’t stop going through the motions. Meacham couldn’t see Hudson. He was inside, she assumed, in default mode: pleading with Gray. She didn’t have to guess what he was saying. She knew. He wanted Gray to stop what had been set in motion. He wouldn’t accept that it was too late. Or at least, like Sturghill, he was unable to stop engaging in futile gestures.
Meacham was standing in a small, circular garden across from the courtyard entrance to the hall. There was an elevation of four small steps above the drive that kept the greenery free of the gravel. The garden was twenty feet across and laid out in concentric circles. Low yew hedges marked the outer perimeter. A walkway of finely crushed stone was the next circle, followed by a ring of hedges trimmed into small, rounded pyramids about two feet high, separated by short rows of euphorbia. Then another walkway, and finally a small pond. At its centre was a fountain. It was a moss-covered stone pile, mirroring the shape of the hedges. Water spouted up about six inches. The gurgle was very peaceful.
Meacham blotted out the white noise of the crowd’s conversations. She listened to the water. She looked away from assembled sheep and watched the water flow. She could almost believe in such a thing as peace. She knew, too, how easy it was to believe in comforting illusions. Over the course of her career, she had manufactured her fair share. The purpose of such illusions was to draw attention and energy away from effective action. They lulled. She could, she thought, let herself go. Be lulled. She could sit down here, stare at the water, listen to it murmur to itself, and wait for the end to come. That would be much easier than fighting. Wasn’t the comforting illusion even more necessary, she thought, when there was no effective action to be taken? Sometimes, there really was no fighting to be done. Sometimes, the quiet lie of there, there, it’s all right was necessary to see you more easily through your death.
What about it, then?
She sighed. No. Not in her nature. She was just as bad as Sturghill and Hudson. She would go through her own futile motions of struggle, different in kind but not in effect from theirs. She would tell herself that she would find a way out, even as she da
mned herself as a poor liar.
She looked away from the water and faced the broader prospect of the gardens again. She considered the options. They still had the petrol bombs. She should think of the townspeople not as fodder for Rose, but as possible allies. Some of them might be useful. Porter, maybe. The police. Come on, then. Work to do.
She found Kate Boulter in the tent. Porter and staff were dispensing tall glasses of Pimms with sprigs of mint. Gray’s menu, it seemed. The drinks were being snatched up as quickly as they were poured. The gathering looked like a party. Sounded like a party. The faces, though, were all strained. Boulter was standing just inside the shade of the tent, looking around with an expression Meacham thought was the same as had been on her own face a few moments before: depressed speculation. “Welcome to the party,” she said to Boulter.
The detective grimaced. “Couldn’t have missed it,” she said. Subtext: though I tried.
“Would you believe I was hoping the police might put a stop to this?”
Boulter chuckled. “I think I do believe you.” She sighed, swept her gaze around. “What a piss-up.”
“I’m looking for a few good pyromaniacs.” When Boulter cocked an eyebrow, Meacham told her what she had in mind.
“What, now?”
Meacham shook her head. “We can’t. Too many people still arriving.”
“Nice to know the CIA has some concerns about collateral damage.”
“Never said it did. I do. Fair enough?”
Boulter nodded, signing the peace treaty. “When, then?”
“Not much choice. Once everybody’s here. Before full dark, I hope.”
Boulter checked her watch, then looked at the steady stream of people still being emerging from the forest. “Good luck on that.”
Gethsemane Hall Page 26
