The Parliament of the Dead

by T. A. Donnelly

  She looked around. On a table by the door there was an old-fashioned telephone and a newspaper with yesterday’s date, but even that was covered in what appeared to be several weeks’dust.

  It looked like an uncared-for recreation of a flat in a museum, rather than a real home. Something other than the smell was not right about this place.

  Cobwebs hung in every corner, sagging, heavily laden with dust.

  “Arthur?”she called out again, though with less conviction than before.

  Entering the kitchen she discovered the strangest sight yet. The sink did not look like it had been used for years: it was filled with old leather-bound books, and all the worktops had been used as bookshelves.

  There were newspaper articles pinned to all the cupboard doors. When Iona looked closer she saw that several had pictures of people who looked very like Arthur. Iona realised it couldn’t be him when she saw an article more than fifty years old that had a picture of a man (also‘Arthur’) who looked older than her Arthur did now.

  “Must be Arthur Senior,”Iona whispered aloud.

  The pictures all had Arthur look-alikes; some young, some old. Iona could not tell which were of the man she knew and which were of his relatives.

  When Iona opened the cutlery drawer she found it full of documents and identity cards in a variety of names spanning over a hundred years. There was a yellowing card spotted with mould that read,‘This is to certify that Arthur Turpin-Richards, Undertaker, has been registered under the National Registration Act 1915.’ There was‘Carte D’Identité’with a small photo of a man who looked exactly as Arthur did today, and at least a dozen passports.

  Iona looked in the other cupboards and found a collection of old coins and bank notes, a hand-written pile of papers with the title page,“Bleak House by Charles Dickens”and two old-fashioned flint-lock pistols.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clock-watching

  Tiggy Ward looked at the clock for the sixth time in five minutes. It was six-thirty. Iona had not been back for lunch, and now she was late for dinner. Her mobile was switched off.

  Tiggy wondered where Iona had been all day. It was a safe bet that she had not been visiting museums and art galleries. Her friends had been in school for most of the day. Maybe she had gone to see one of them after school.

  Tiggy stood biting her nails and watching the clock. Another hour passed. Once her last fingernail was as short as it could get she decided she would telephone one of Iona's friends.

  Iona’s best friend had gone missing on a school trip to Ireland a year before. Since then Iona did not seem to have made any close friendships; at least none that Tiggy knew about.

  The only friend of her daughter’s she had met recently was a girl called‘Dusk,’who had come to dinner about a month ago.

  Tiggy climbed the stairs to Iona’s bedroom and searched through the mess for her address book.

  When she finally found it (under a pile of dirty laundry and crumpled Tarot cards) she sat on the dyed black sheets of her daughter’s bed and called Dusk’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Revelations

  After ten minutes of exploring Arthur’s flat Iona finally located the source of the smell. It was a door at the end of the hallway.

  Her imagination ran riot, placing untold horrors behind the grubby door. Excrement and decaying corpses filled her mind as her trembling hand turning the handle.

  It was just a toilet.

  The water had dried up in the bowl. Iona realised that with nothing in the‘U-bend’the smell could rise from the sewers. Iona experimentally pulled the flush chain. It was rusted and it snapped, but not before allowing the toilet bowl to fill with water and the smell to ease a little. However, the stench was so all-pervasive that it would take some time to clear completely.

  With a relieved sigh Iona started back towards the main room to open some windows, and stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Arthur!” Iona was startled to find Arthur sitting on the chair in the same room.

  “I’m…”Iona was not sure how to justify her presence, uninvited, in Arthur’s strange flat. Then she remembered she was here because he had failed to turn up for his job, leaving her, a fourteen-year-old girl, to take his place.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was here all along.”

  “No you weren’t, but that’s not what I meant. Where were you today? Your walk?”

  Arthur sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement of his collar allowed Iona another glimpse of the strange red mark around his throat that she had noticed the first time they’d met. “Oh yes, William will be cross. But it doesn’t matter, it’s time for me to move on.”

  Iona wanted to tell him that she had taken his walk, but she wanted to know what Arthur meant. “Move on?”

  “Yes, dear girl, to pastures greener.” He looked at her with a sad smile. “Or at least less grey.”

  “Where, I mean why?” Arthur was the most interesting person she had met in years, she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving when they had only just met.

  “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, it’s no longer safe for me.”

  “Safe? What’s going on? Are those stolen antiques or something in your kitchen?” As Iona looked back out of the room she noticed that everything looked different from when she had first come in. Without giving Arthur a chance to answer the last group of questions she noticed another difference in the room, so she asked quicky,“Where did all the dust go?”

  “Dust we are, Iona,”sighed Arthur,“and to dust we return.”

  “OK, this is too weird, you’re freaking me out now. What is happening here? Who are you, why have you got all that stuff in your kitchen and what was going on with your toilet?”

  Arthur smiled, although his eyes were still sad. “Alright, dear girl, I’ll let you into my secret.”

  He coughed before continuing, “I’m dead.”

  Iona furrowed her brow. “What, dead as in you’re in really big trouble?”

  “No, just dead, as in no longer alive. I’m a ghost!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An interrupted Reverie

  The room was lit by large black candles that gave off a scent like old roses. The curtains were of deep red velvet.

  Arcane symbols were painted onto the black walls.

  A pale hand turned the pages of a musty book. Next to the book lay an object that looked very much like a human skull.

  The silence of the room was broken by the sound of a bell ringing.

  The pale hand clicked open a mobile phone. “Hello, Dusk here,”chirruped a friendly voice with an East London accent.

  “Erm, hello Dusk,”a woman’s voice spoke hesitantly down the line,“this is Tiggy Ward, Iona’s mother.”

  “Oh hello Mrs. Ward, how nice to hear from you!” Dusk replied enthusiastically,“Thanks for the dinner last month.”

  “Erm, don’t mention it. Dusk, I wondered if you had any idea where Iona is at the moment?”

  “No, Mrs. Ward, I haven’t seen Iona since she was s…”Dusk stopped herself before she said‘suspended’she did not want to remind Tiggy of her daughter’s trouble at school. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh.” Tiggy’s voice was so faint it almost faded to nothing. “Well thank you anyway Dusk.”

  Dusk picked up the fallen conversation. “I’m sure she’s OK Mrs. Ward. She’s just not a great time-keeper.”

  * * *

  Tiggy was already lost in thought and did not respond.

  “Well, Mrs. Ward,”Dusk continued,“I’ll let you know if she gets in touch OK?”

  Tiggy hung up the phone with a sigh.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Oncoming Storm

  Father Pious adjusted the long row of buttons on his cassock. The militant monks of the Third Order of St Cyril were due any minute. His companions were obviously nervous; Father Pious had told them about the violen
t and merciless reputation of the Third Order.

  In the Middle Ages the Inquisition had purged the Church. When witch-hunts were no longer morally acceptable, certain branches of the Inquisition went undercover: some still dealt with witchcraft, some dealt with the spirits of the dead.

  When the twelve monks finally arrived Father Pious was taken aback by their appearance. They wore black leather cassocks - long coats that skimmed the ground.

  Their hair was close-cropped, and shaved into the back of each of their heads was a large cross.

  Father Pious had hoped for rather less conspicuous back-up, but if they were going to exorcise the entire‘Parliament of the Dead’they would need all the muscle they could get.

  “Welcome brothers,”Father Pious’smile was devoid of warmth,“we have one job to do tonight, then we must prepare for tomorrow’s operation.”

  One of the monks with grey-black hair frowned,“I was not informed about any actions before tomorrow.”

  Father Pious rubbed his chin,“Just one: a highwayman.”

  The monk furrowed his brow.

  “A special case,”Father Pious continued,“he’s pretending to be alive.”

  The monk shook his close-cropped head,“Why don’t you just take him out with the rest of the Parliament?”

  “He’s an outsider. My source tells me that he will not be attending.”

  “You have spies?” For the first time the monk seemed to approve. “That is excellent. Can we meet with them before the attack?”

  “I’m afraid our informant is dead,”Father Pious admitted through tight lips.

  “That’s unfortunate, when did he die? Can you be sure his information is still reliable?”

  “I think he died about two hundred years ago.”Irritation was mounting in Father Pious’voice, he was not accustomed to being questioned. “And he is very reliable - high up in the Parliament.”

  The monks looked disapproving:“You mean to say that your informant is one of them?”

  “You do not like my methods?” Father Pious tutted. “You would do well to study Holy Scripture. In the book of Joshua, Rahab the pagan harlot helped the Israelites’soldiers. Only through the assistance of the enemydid Jericho fall into the hands of God’s people.”

  The monks murmured together, and were silenced by a grim look from their leader. “But the Israelites spared Rahab when they slaughtered the rest of her city. You cannot seriously plan to let this ghost, this abomination, survive?”

  Father Pious looked at the floor for a moment, then spoke briskly,“Oh no, of course not. In the end he’ll be exorcised with the rest of them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  An Interview

  with the Undead

  “Of course, you’re dead!”cried Iona,“It all makes sensenow. Living people need toilets and kitchens. I bet you can’t smell anything when you’re dead, right?”

  Arthur shook his head with a sad smile:“I can’t eat, I can’t drink, I can’t taste anything orsmell anything. I have a greatly reduced sense of touch.”

  Iona looked horrified.

  “Oh, don’t pity me. I had a life, and my after-life is better than some. There is a ghostly maid in a small hotel in Dundee, who is doomed to spend eternity as an incorporeal phantom; whose sole mission in death is turning the kitchen’s bread mouldy.”

  Iona, who had been standing throughout the conversation, sat down on one of Arthur’s old wooden chairs.

  “So,”she leaned forward as she spoke,“what happens when you die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re dead aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but only a few of us come back like this. The rest go wherever they go. Only those with unfinished business linger as ghosts,”Arthur shrugged,“but I really try and not think about these things. Being dead is just as mysterious as being alive.”

  Iona looked at the floor. “My dad’s dead.”

  “I know,”Arthur said softly,“when you told me you were descended from Tom King I made some enquiries.”

  “Enquiries to find out if he’s one of you? Is he a ghost? Tell me he is.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “But why didn’t dad come back?”

  “Maybe he had no unfinished business.”

  “But if he loved me, bringing me up would have been his unfinished business?”

  “No Iona, I don’t think so. Perhaps it was because he loved you so much and so well that he could move on.”

  Iona stood up and walked to the window. It was almost dark. As she looked out she thought she saw a black-clad figure slip back into the shadows.

  She clicked her tongue and stared out into the night.

  * * *

  “So who were you?”asked Iona.

  “Who amI?”corrected Arthur.

  “Sure,‘are,’whatever; who are you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me,”insisted Iona. “You mean it would be harder to believe than the fact that I’m talking to a ghost?”

  “Alright,”sighed Arthur,“I was a highwayman. I was…”

  “Don’t tell me!” Interrupted Iona,“You were‘Dick Turpin, knight of the bleedin’road!’”Iona impersonated Arthur’s passionate speech during his ghost walks when he would rhapsodise about the exploits of the highwayman.

  Arthur looked startled for a moment, then appeared to take a deep breath. “Well, to be fair young lady,”he replied with a deep sigh,“I was not quite all that I said I was.”

  Iona shot him a curious look,“You mean you lied about yourself?”

  “Well,”Arthur offered slowly,“let’s just say that the true story would not inspire my customers.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  Arthur tugged at his collar,“I feel I owe it to you.”

  “Owe it to me?”

  Arthur studied Iona, and once again she had the feeling that he was measuring her: weighing up her ability to hear what he was about to say. “I knew your great-great-great (I don’t know how may greats) grandfather.”

  “You mean Tom King?”

  “Yes. It pains me to say it but Tom King was the original dandy highwayman.”

  “I thought that was you, the dashing Dick Turpin?”

  “Alright, I’ll tell you the whole story,”Arthur began,“I was born in 1706, the son of a farmer. I was an apprentice to a butcher. My stealing started as a joke, a bit of a lark.” He spoke with a melancholy expression. “I borrowed two oxen.”

  “Borrowed?”asked Iona.

  “Well I didn’t intendto keep them; I was playing a trick on Henry Oak, a farmer who sold my employer some rancid meat. Well old Henry didn’t see the funny side,”Arthur continued,“and he got the Law onto me, so I went into hiding.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, with the Authorities after me I couldn’t make any kind of living, unless I made crime my profession.”

  “So you became a highwayman?”

  “Not quite,”Arthur looked embarrassed,“I rarely did any actual highwayrobberies, unless the travellers were elderly or female.”

  Iona tutted,“So much for a‘gentleman thief’or‘knight of the road.’”

  “I know, I know, but that is not the end of my shame. I formed a gang with other undesirables. The‘Essex Gang’they called us.”

  “The Essex Gang?” Iona butted in,“I guess you were operating in Cheshire then?”

  “Please don’t mock Iona. I have not told anyone this story in two hundred and fifty years.”

  “OK, the Essex Gang, carry on...”

  “Well, we were all cowards, we attacked women because they had more jewellery and were less likely to carry weapons.”

  “Bloody-hell Arthur!” Iona paused. “Or should I say Dick?”

  “I prefer Arthur at the moment.”The old man said quietly before picking up his story again
. “My career changed when I met your great-great-great and so on... grandfather.”

  “Tom King!”cried Iona,“at last!”

  “Yes, he was everything I wanted to be. A handsome, dashing and brave swashbuckler.”

  Iona grinned,“I can definitely see the family resemblance.”

  “Anyway, he would not take money from people who he felt needed it more, or from ladies he felt were too pretty. (Of course I would nip back and rob them after Tom had gone!)”

  Despite her constant quips, Iona became increasingly horrified as Arthur’s story progressed. “You were a right nasty little git!”

  “You don't know the half of it. I did terrible things.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Iona suddenly felt a flash of fear. “Arthur you’re talking like a villain in a movie who was telling the hero the whole story before trying to kill her with an overblown scheme involving laser-beams, radioactive sharks and a giant food-blender.”

  “I’m getting to the why,”Arthur looked uneasy,“but you need not fear the blender.”

  “A horse that I had stolen was traced to an inn where we had been staying. Tom was captured, so I loaded my pistols and decided to stage a rescue to make Tom proud.”

  “What happened?”

  “I charged my horse at the constables. Unloaded my pistols. And killed Tom.”

  “Why?”

  “It was an accident. I never was a very good shot. I waved my pistols about a lot, but I rarely actually fired them.”

  Iona laughed.

  “Miss Ward, this is not funny. I killed your forebear.”

  “Yeah but...”Iona shrugged,“...hundreds of years ago.”

  “Two hundred and seventy-eight years Iona. It may be a long time ago to you, but I can remember it like yesterday.”

  They looked at each other in silence for a few minutes.

  Iona seemed to be building herself up to something. Her head was nodding almost imperceptibly as she cast furtive glances at Arthur.