Angel

by Jon Grahame

  Reaper knew what he meant. Going AWOL for a time could be Ronnie’s idea of confirming his own individuality. The world might have ended but Ronnie Ronaldo was unchanged. He would continue ducking and diving, as if evading a police warrant, whenever he felt like it.

  ‘The thing is,’ added Pete. ‘He wasn’t going far. This wasn’t a scouting trip, as such. He’d heard of a factory on the outskirts of York that had solar panels. That’s where he was going. But York’s an hour up the road, not three days away.’

  ‘You think he went into the city?’ said Reaper.

  ‘He’s a curious sod. If somebody wanted to keep him out, he’d want to go in through sheer bloody mindedness. He could be a prisoner of the mad mullah.’

  ‘Brother Abraham.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘Then we’d better have a look.’

  Chapter 8

  THE ROMANS HAD ESTABLISHED YORK AT THE JUNCTION of the Rivers Foss and Ouse. Later it was occupied by the Vikings and then fortified by William the Conqueror. Its castle walls were the most complete of any city in England. Reaper read about it in a guidebook in the manor house library. The walls did not completely encircle the city and, in ancient times, the rivers and marshland had been added protection. There were four main entrances in the fortifications: Walmgate Bar; Monk Bar; Bootham Bar; and Micklegate Bar, as well as at least four other main access roads into York.

  Reaper led two teams. He partnered Sandra, and Jenny went with Tanya. They approached the city from the northeast along Malton Road, past the Holiday Inn and numerous hotels, pubs and guest houses. York had been one of the foremost tourist cities in Britain. As they came closer to the walls, the road became Monkgate and led to Monk Bar, one of the medieval gateways into the city. The central white stone tower had four storeys, arrow slits and an arched entryway beneath. Two other archways were beneath short stretches of castle wall on either side. The walls then disappeared behind more modern buildings that had been built on the short approach road.

  Signs indicated that the main archway beneath the tower was a cycle lane. The small arch on the right gave access for pedestrians. The wider arch beneath the wall on the left, had been for vehicles.

  They drove around the city: one team going south, the other north, without attempting entry. The limestone walls were still handsome after hundreds of years protecting a centre that was the cradle of two thousand years of history. The Minster towered above them in the northern quarter and Clifford’s Tower was imposing at the southeastern, overlooking the River Ouse.

  The teams passed each other and continued their circumnavigation until they met back on Monkgate. They parked the Range Rovers a hundred yards up the road, opposite the Tap and Spile public house. The road began to curve here and they were almost out of sight of the gatehouse. They could see the dead traffic lights at the junction where Monkgate met the road that paralleled the city walls. Further along on their left was the Viceroy of India restaurant.

  Both teams confirmed that all gates, bridges and roads into the city were blocked with cars and lorries. Driving in was not possible. Neither, of course, was driving out if anyone needed to make a swift escape. They had a tourist street map of the city but no idea where Ronnie might be held, if he had, indeed been captured, or how many followers Brother Abraham had. Reports suggested any number from thirty to three hundred.

  They walked across the road and Reaper studied the entrance through binoculars. People stared back at him from the crenellated castle walls.

  ‘They’re carrying crossbows,’ he said, in amazement. He refocused. ‘And pikes.’

  ‘We could go in at night,’ said Tanya. ‘There are plenty of places. They don’t have enough people.’

  ‘But we don’t know the city and we wouldn’t know where to look for Ronnie,’ said Sandra.

  ‘The only sensible thing is to go and ask,’ said Reaper. ‘I’m inclined to try diplomacy before anything else.’

  ‘Who’s going to ask?’ Sandra said.

  ‘I will. I’ll ask Brother Abraham.’

  ‘What if he’s as mad as people say?’

  ‘I’ll humour him.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work?’

  ‘If I don’t come back, you’re in charge.’

  ‘If you don’t come back, I’m coming in. And I won’t be asking permission.’

  Reaper put his carbine in the back of the car and shared a look with his three companions.

  ‘It’s two o’clock. If I’m not back by six, treat them as hostile. I should imagine Brother Abraham will be in the Minster. Be careful. They might send out a raiding party.’

  He removed the belt that held his handguns and put them in the back of the car, too.

  ‘Take care, Reaper,’ Sandra said.

  He walked down the middle of the road with his arms wide in the universal gesture that said he was unarmed and wished to parley. When he reached the traffic lights, maybe twenty yards from the barricaded entrance, he stopped and shouted.

  ‘My name is Reaper! I’m from a settlement near the coast! I’m looking for one of our community, a man called Ronnie Ronaldo! Have you seen him?’

  He kept watching the walls. A large woman holding a pike stared back at him from the wall to the left. A figure was sitting behind a low crenellation holding a crossbow that was pointing at him. The bolt was released and he had no time to jump for safety. He had fired a crossbow himself in training and knew the power of the weapon and the damage that could be caused by a steel tipped bolt fired with 150 lbs draw weight travelling at a speed of more than two hundred feet per second. The thought rooted him to the spot in momentary fear and resignation. The bolt hit the road surface by his feet and skipped away and he breathed again.

  A voice shouted angrily from the tower, perhaps in reprimand, perhaps at wasting a bolt. Behind him, he heard the click of carbines being readied.

  Reaper didn’t move. He didn’t retreat and he didn’t make any gestures that might be construed as provocative. He realised that the day suddenly seemed more crystalline, the air that he breathed seemed sweeter. Being so close to death certainly cleared the head.

  ‘Is this the way you normally treat guests?’ he shouted.

  ‘You’re not a guest!’ a voice said. ‘You’re contamination!’

  He had been called many things, but contamination was a new description.

  ‘Can I see Brother Abraham?’

  ‘Go to the pavement entrance!’

  Reaper did as he was told.

  Vans blocked both the other entrances beneath the wall. Not singly, but in an untidy clump with no apparent order or reason except to make them impassible to other vehicles. The pedestrian entrance was protected by a chicane of stacked steel beer barrels that looked solid until he reached it and saw he could slip in sideways. A sign on the wall pointed the way to the Richard III museum in the tower.

  On the other side, he was confronted by a big man in a monk’s black habit who had a lot of hair and body odour that would incapacitate at twenty paces. Reaper braced himself and tried to breath shallowly through his mouth. The man’s beard was full and unkempt, his hair thick and wild as if he had been struck by lightning.

  ‘I’m Brother Mark,’ he said.

  He wore a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. He was about thirty years of age and bristled with physical strength and an inner belief.

  ‘I’m Reaper.’

  They took each other’s measure for a moment. Brother Mark did not look impressed. Reaper did not offer to shake hands. For one thing, he didn’t think the monk would take it and, for another, he didn’t want to catch anything. If he was contamination, this bloke was probably contagious.

  ‘This way,’ Brother Mark said, and strode off down the street, legs bare beneath the habit, black Nike training shoes on his fee
t.

  Reaper had half expected them to take his knives from him but they either hadn’t noticed or thought they were of acceptable vintage, seeing as they sported pikes and crossbows. He followed, taking a look up at the wall as he went. The walkway had originally been open but now had a metal railing, erected to stop tourists falling off. The woman who was holding the pike stared at him. She wore a tracksuit and was of uncertain age. A small man in a black sweater and black trousers sat with his back to the wall nursing a crossbow that he had reloaded. He also had a beard and his hair was long but the most striking thing about him was his smile: it was pure evil. Perhaps he had escaped from the Richard III museum.

  With their attitude, Reaper couldn’t see tourists returning any time soon.

  Brother Mark strode out with long steps and Reaper had to speed up to catch him as they walked along Goodramgate. Coming towards them was a group of four men on bicycles. They wore tracksuits, beards and long hair and carried either longbows or crossbows on their back. Reinforcements, heading to Monk Bar. They passed without looking in his direction. Maybe they were frightened he’d contaminate them.

  The street was a mixture of ancient and modern and seemed to get older the further they went. The Minster was to the right but Brother Mark stayed on Goodramgate, which turned to the left: old pubs, betting shops, restaurants, black and white timbered medieval buildings.

  A man on horseback rode towards them. He was middle-aged and wore long boots, black velvet trousers and a cloak over a black shirt and a clerical collar. He had a gold cross on a chain around his neck. Brother Mark raised his hand sideways and indicated that Reaper should stay back, out of earshot.

  The monk walked to the rider and they conversed for several minutes. Neither seemed happy with the way the discussion went. The man on horseback had a paunch that his posture in the saddle only served to emphasise. He was clean-shaven but had a wart on his chin and a veined nose that indicated a fondness for strong alcohol. Reaper thought this was what Oliver Cromwell might have looked like.

  The horseman eventually turned his mount with an angry gesture and rode away, the hooves echoing in the street. They continued walking until Brother Mark turned abruptly right through an arch in a high stone wall and led Reaper into a small enclosed churchyard. A stone path led between patches of long grass and, to the right, a few ancient gravestones leaned with the weight of time. Ahead was a grey church with a red tile roof and a short tower. A sign said this was the Church of the Holy Trinity.

  The city they had walked through had been almost empty, but Reaper could imagine that, in the years before the virus, when its narrow streets had bustled with tourists and shoppers, this hidden garden churchyard must have been a haven. Sunshine slanted off the ancient stone of the church and graves. Beyond this small and beautiful place of worship, over the roofs of intervening buildings, could be seen the towers of its grand neighbour, York Minster.

  Two men sat on a bench outside the church. They wore tracksuits, like almost everyone else, and had beards and long hair. Incongruously, they carried cricket bats. No ball was in evidence.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Brother Mark, and left Reaper outside.

  Reaper felt as if he had stepped back in time. The men were wearing biblical length hair and the monk had the hygiene of an era before soap. They clearly did not use motor cars nor carry guns, but a crossbow was an effective weapon. As was a cricket bat. He suspected Brother Abraham might not have a total grasp on reality. Mark returned.

  ‘Brother Abraham will see you,’ he said, and led the way inside.

  Whilst walking outdoors, Reaper had managed to stay upwind of the monk’s body odour, but entering the small building together, it was once more overpowering. For a moment, he held his breath but the interior of the church was so beautiful he let it out again. Sunlight burst through stained glass windows to spill warm colours over the untidy confusion of irregular box pews.

  They were at the back of a church whose roof was supported by octagonal stone pillars. They were standing at the start of an aisle that led down to a side altar or chapel. A central nave led to the main altar and there was a third aisle on the far side, and yet the whole place was not much bigger than a front room; an Alice in Wonderland church where he wouldn’t have been surprised to meet a white rabbit and a mad March hare. Instead, he met Brother Abraham.

  ‘Welcome to the city of Godliness,’ he said. He glanced at Reaper’s guide and said, ‘You can wait outside, Brother.’

  Mark left the church and closed the door behind him and the air began to clear.

  Abraham waved his hand in front of his face to dissipate the smell.

  ‘He does take it to extremes,’ he said. ‘But he has a good heart. Please, would you come this way?’

  He led Reaper down the nearest aisle of uneven stone flags, past the higgledy piggledy pews, down wooden steps and into a small sunken area in the southeast corner of the church. The altar was a few feet away, up more steps, to the left, but here, in this depressed corner of the church, carpets covered the stone floor and cushions of many colours were scattered around a low table. The aroma was of incense and candle wax. The monk indicated Reaper should sit and they chose cushions facing each other.

  ‘Now, how can I help you, Brother Reaper?’

  Abraham was as tall as the departed Brother Mark, but aesthetically better proportioned. He was in his mid-thirties and wore a white woollen habit with a hood that hung down his back. His feet were bare. His brown hair was clean and well looked after, parted in the middle and hung to his shoulders. His beard, whilst full, was trimmed and well cared for. His face was well defined: high cheek bones; aquiline nose; blue eyes; a mouth that was both strong and sensual and was now smiling at Reaper as if to say, well, what do you think?

  Reaper thought Abraham looked like a Renaissance Christ. Brother Mark had glowed with an inner fanaticism, but Abraham glowed with an inner charisma. It was easy to see why he had followers.

  ‘I come from a community called Haven towards the coast,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘One of our people has gone missing. Ronnie Ronaldo.’ Reaper shrugged at the name and Abraham smiled. ‘We believe he came here some days ago and we haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘Brother Ronald is, indeed, with us,’ said Abraham. ‘He is our guest – although, I have to admit, a reluctant one. He intruded into our domain without permission and resisted apprehension.’

  ‘Resisted?’

  ‘Oh, nothing too serious. He pushed one of our fellows off the castle wall whilst trying to escape.’

  ‘Was the man hurt?’

  Reaper had visions of a long drop onto concrete.

  ‘It was upon a stretch with soft turf below and a gentle slope into a stream. Our brother survived with a sprained wrist and dampened enthusiasm. Others were nearby and subdued Brother Ronald, although, from what I was told, he accepted his containment readily enough. The good Lord tells us to turn the other cheek but, sadly, not all my followers are as assiduous in following the teachings of the Lord as they should be. I regret Brother Ronald received a few kicks and cuffs whilst being restrained.’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘Merely bruised.’

  Reaper really had walked through a time warp. He felt he was in a different past, an alternative reality. Abraham was using language that was not quite archaic but not of the real world, either.

  ‘If your man is hurt, we have a doctor,’ he offered.

  ‘Do not be concerned. The injury was nothing serious. Pride was hurt more than anything else. He has been tended by our own apothecary.’

  Apothecary? ‘Where is Ronnie?’

  ‘He is in jail. The castle cells, you know, once housed Richard Turpin before his execution.’

  Reaper said, ‘You’re not going to execute him?’


  ‘Not on this occasion. It is my hope that Brother Ronald might appreciate the gravity of his situation because of the historical context of his confinement. We have told him he occupies the same prison cell once occupied by the highwayman so that he can contemplate Dick Turpin, his own transgressions and the possibility of the long drop. He also receives daily visits from a cleric who instructs him in appropriate passages from the Bible. I hope that he now understands that he committed grievous trespass and, once released, will not do so again.’

  ‘So he is not actually in Turpin’s cell?’

  ‘He is in a storeroom of the Castle Museum. Bare stone walls, a barred window and a solid door, so the subterfuge is believable. Turpin’s cell still exists but has no door. It was removed to make access easier for tourists.’

  The hint of a smile permanently lingered around Abraham’s mouth as if he was mocking both Reaper and his own position. But he had to be taken seriously. At this precise moment, Abraham held the power of life and death over both Ronnie and Reaper.

  ‘So you will release him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I will release him into your custody on the condition that no one from your community invades our society in the future. Not just here in the city, but amongst our brethren who work the land along the river to the northwest. All we desire is to be left in peace to commune with God; to make amends for the sins of the world and sow the seeds of a more humble future.’ For the first time, the smile had gone. These sentiments, Abraham believed in.

  Reaper looked around. ‘I thought the Minster would be a more suitable place for your devotions.’

  ‘Oh it is. We have services there twice a day and thrice on Sunday. This modest but holy dwelling is where I live. This is the Church of the Holy Trinity. God has been worshipped here since the 12th century and this church has existed since the 15th. These walls have heard a lot of prayers. At night, I hear them still, reverberating from the stones and in my dreams. They give me comfort and certitude in my belief in God’s mysterious ways.’