Chapter Thirty
Among the Dead
Two hours later Iona was locked alone in the crypt of a small church in north London. After the priests had locked her in for a few minutes the door opened again and one of her captors carelessly threw her purse at her, which they had taken when they had first captured her. Once again she heard the heavy bolt of the door slide across with a clank, and Iona couldn’t help shuddering.
The only light came from a single candle. The pale glow seemed to make the shadows darker, larger and more sinister as they danced around the uneven stone walls. Iona caught their movements out of the corner of her eye, and spun around to see if someone was there.
* * *
Iona gathered her thoughts: she had been chased through London, threatened at gunpoint, and abducted. She had been afraid, but in front of her captors she had been too busy being defiant to feel afraid. With no one to insult, alone in the dark, her heart started to beat so quickly that she struggled to catch her breath.
She clutched a rough stone tomb to steady herself. “Pull yourself together Iona,”she said out loud, “I will notbe a damsel in distress. Not now, not ever!”
With her nerves steadied, Iona picked up the candle and began to explore her prison.
There was only one door: old, solid and oak. There were a dozen stone coffins of varying size and design. Some were intricate: carved with images of angels and crucifixes; others were plain. Two were quite small; with a chill Iona realised they must have been for children.
As she walked through the crypt she called out,“Hello, is anybody there? I’m on the side of the ghosts, and I need some help.” There was only silence. Iona frowned at herself. “Get a grip, Iona. Expecting a ghost in the exorcists’house is like expecting a rat in the offices of Rentokil.”
She set the candle on the ground and ran her hands along the stone lid of the largest coffin.“I am not going to be a damsel in distress,”she repeated as she started to push. Slowly the lid slid back. She dreamed of a secret passage, but there was no escape in the coffin: only old bones.
She nervously reached out to touch them: they were dry, and layered with dust. She picked up a large leg bone. “I’m sorry,”she whispered to the skeleton with a shrug,“but right now I need this more than you do. It’s the closest thing to a weapon in this place. Why couldn’t you be buried with a sword? Or better still a rocket-launcher?” She paused, looking into the coffin as if expecting a reply. Then she reached in and picked up another leg bone with her other hand.
Standing back from the coffin she turned to face the door. She made a whooshing noise as she spun the bones around in the air like two Samurai swords.
“Who are you trying to kid?”she muttered as she walked slowly up to the door.
She pressed her ear against the wood. She could hear voices. She strained to make out what they were saying over the noise of her breathing and her pounding heart.
“You really think we can destroy the whole Parliament?”asked one voice.
“Of course. As long as the ritual is performed correctly,”replied another.
“It will be the largest mass exorcism for centuries.”
“What about the girl?”
“We’ll interrogate her to see if she has any more information about the Parliament.”
* * *
Up to now Iona had wanted to escape for her own safety. Now she realised that there was more at stake. She had to warn Arthur.
She leaned up against the door and shouted,“I need the toilet!”
Silence.
“Surely you don’t want me to pee on holy ground?”
Silence. They were not going to rise to the bait. Iona tried a new tack.
“Help, help, I’m being possessed!”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,”a stern voice snapped from the other side of the door.
Iona allowed herself a small smile. At least they can hear me, she thought.
“Help, help the Devil is coming for me!” She made a series of strangled screams and cries calling to mind every horror film she had ever seen.
This time there was no response.
Iona put on her best Devil’s voice as she pretended to be possessed “Ah you think you are so holy, but the Devil will get your soul!” Diabolic laughter. “Your mother knits socks in hell!”
Again silence.
“Oh come on,”cried Iona,“Haven’t you seen that movie?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Arthur to the Rescue?
T
he two monks standing by the door to the crypt were getting tired of Iona’s constant talking. After pretending to be possessed she claimed she needed medication, and she would die without her tablets. Then she claimed she was being attacked by a giant spider. Once she had shouted that she was about to be crushed to death by a stampede of buffalo and there was a moment of quiet. Both of the monks leaned their ears towards the door, and both jumped as Iona banged on the door with all her might. They were about to shout some dire warnings and threats when they heard her speak again: more softly this time, and she was not addressing them.
* * *
“Arthur,”her voice sounded surprised and delighted,“how did you find me here?”
There was a short pause, a clanking noise, and then the door sprung open as two monks leapt inside weapons at the ready.
A third came and stood by the door, shouting in to the others,“What’s going on here?”
“It’s the highwayman; he’s here to try to rescue the girl. We heard the girl talking to him.”
One of the monks who was searching the room turned to point his gun at Iona. “Where is he? Tell me or you may not live to regret it.”
Iona burst into tears. “Oh please no, please don’t hurt me!”
The monk moved nearer, veins standing up on his reddening forehead,“Just tell me!”he spat.
Iona held up a trembling hand and pointed to the far corner of the crypt. The two monks inside moved towards the corner Iona had indicated. The third monk by the door leant in to try and see what was going on. Before he had time to register what was happening two leg bones splintered against his temple. Although he did not lose consciousness he fell forward, giving Iona an opportunity to push him fully into the crypt while she neatly sidestepped into the hall. She quickly closed the door behind her and slid the bolt.
She felt nauseous and excited; despite her somersaulting stomach she enjoyed a moment of satisfaction:“An Oscar-winning performance, Iona,”she whispered.
However, she had no time to celebrate her escape, because she knew from the voices she had heard that there were more of them in the building, and the noise would attract them in seconds. She ran to a larger arched door at one end of the corridor. It was locked.
Doubling back she opened another door, backing in and closing it behind her as she heard footsteps in the hall, and angry voices.
She turned round to find herself in a toilet. “Great choice Iona!” She chided herself.
As quietly as she could, she locked the door. There was a small window above the toilet. She wasn’t sure if she could fit through, but it was her only hope. With the speed and agility that comes from fear, she was half out of the window in one fluid movement. Then she got stuck.
The monks had realised where she was, and began hammering on the door. The lock gave way just as Iona worked herself free. Father Pious’fingers clutched at Iona’s disappearing Doc Martins as she slithered into the open air, and then she was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Home Run
Iona ran as she had never run before. Her heart was pounding, striking hammer-blows against her chest, and she was gasping for breath.
She had to warn Arthur that the exorcists were planning a“mass exorcism,”but she had no idea where to find him. Perhaps he would return to his house to pack up his belongings. It would be dangerous for him. The exorcists knew where he worked, so she could assume they would also know where he
lived. She calmed herself with the thought that this would not have been the first hurried move Arthur had had to make over the centuries.
She wondered if she should call in at home, it was on the way.
Suddenly she felt sick, she slowed down to a wobbly-legged walk. Arthur was not the only one who knew where she lived! The creepy priest would have discovered her name and address from her purse.
She had to warn her mum! But what would she say; how would her mum react to all this? Iona was already up to her neck in trouble for pretending to visit museums when she was really helping with Arthur’s ghost walks. Her mum would never believe her if she came back (late) talking about ghosts and exorcists.
Iona could see no way out. If she went to her mum she would not be believed, but she had to alert her mum that a gang of murderous priests was likely to come calling.
She started to run again, and kept going despite the pain in her chest as she gasped for every breath.
* * *
Iona tried to imagine the conversation she was about to have with her mother:
Angry-faced mum:‘Where have you been?’
Iona:‘Mum you are not going to believe the story I'm about to tell you.’
At this her mother would roll her eyes, preparing herself for a lie.
Iona would protest,‘But, mum, it’s the truth, I promise you.’
‘I'll give you a fair hearing,’ her mum would say with a sigh,‘but your record of telling the truth this week has not been spotless.’
From there the conversation would go downhill. ‘Mum, I’m not kidding, I've met some ghosts, and they are in danger from some evil vicars who kidnapped me and are planning to hold a mass exorcism and I have to warn the undead community that they are in danger.’
Iona wondered if the truth could be good enough. When she had been in trouble at school‘the truth’rarely featured. She had developed a way of telling a lie with such moral indignation that she had started to believe it herself. But this was above and beyond schoolyard scrapes. She considered the possibility of just breaking down in tears and crying,“Mum, I’m really in trouble.” It would get her mother on to her side early in the conversation. But it wasn’t really Iona’s style, and she’d still have to start talking about ghosts and exorcists sooner or later.
* * *
At last she came to her door. She held on to the doorframe trying to recover her breath and gather her wits. She opened the door quietly and was surprised to hear voices from upstairs.
Her heart started to pound again. Had her mum called the Police when she hadn’t come home? Would it be a social worker or child psychologist? Or had the exorcists beaten her to it? She walked up the stairs trying to work out whose was the man’s voice that alternated with her mother’s.
At last she opened the living room door to see her mum leaning forward on the sofa in earnest conversation with Arthur.
“Iona!”they exclaimed in unison,“Thank goodness you’re alright!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Holy Water
A figure dressed in dark red rags stood on top of Big Ben. The scraps of dirty cloth that wrapped her form fluttered in the wind.
She started a long mournful wail. The sound, which at first seemed like a scream, became music-like. The tune was more unsettling than the screech.
Throughout the city the ghosts of London stirred at the sound.
The Banshee of Soho Square was issuing the call to summon the Parliament of the Dead.
* * *
High in the rafters above the House of Lords a complicated ritual was taking place. Laboriously-prepared oils and salts were poured into a water tank. A small vial of grimy water from the River Jordan was also added as the priests who were carrying out the ceremony began to chant.
Their leader started:“All laud to thee, almighty God, for the gift of water. As the waters of the flood destroyed the wicked in the time of Noah,”
The others joined in unison;“So may this water destroy the ungodly.”
“As the waters of the Red Sea destroyed the armies of Egypt,”
“So may this water destroy the ungodly.”
“As the waters of Baptism destroy the power of the Devil,”
“So may this water destroy the ungodly.”
“May this water strike down with great vengeance, and with furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy thy world. And they shalt know that thy name is the Lord when thou layest thy vengeance upon them.”
“Amen.”
The ritual lasted for twenty minutes before the priests fell silent. Father Pious was the first to speak.
“Remember, this is an historic building of national importance: as soon as these sprinklers are set off we will have five minutes, at most, before the place is crawling with Police and Fire Brigade.”
His colleagues looked anxiously at one another as he continued. “The Monks of St. Cyril will only be able to block the doors for two or thee minutes; then, on my signal, we will retreat to the safe room arranged with one of the Bishop’s contacts. There we will lie low for twelve hours, then leave dressed as maintenance workers sent to repair the water damage.”
The other three priests nodded nervously. Father Thomas was sweating under the bandages that still covered half his face. He adjusted the dressing, remembering the shot from Father Pious’gun that had caused the wound. He was brought back to the present by his leader’s voice.
“The smoke bomb is planted under the seat of the chairman.” Father Pious allowed himself the indulgence of a brief smile as he continued,“now all we need to do is take our places and wait.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Parliament
of the Dead
“Ladies, gentlemen, ghouls, and poltergeists, I call to order this Extraordinary Meeting of the Parliament of the Dead.” An elderly figure in dusty legal attire looked around at the assembled group of around two hundred ghosts. He was the late‘Hanging’Judge Henry Hawkins, and the chairperson of the Parliament since 1925.
Some of the faces in the crowd were permanently contorted into ghastly grimaces, some had no faces, or more accurately no heads, but all of those who could possess a range of facial expressions looked worried.
It was midnight. They were gathered in the House of Lords at Westminster. The ghosts of London chose this location for their Parliament because it was large enough to accommodate them all. There were also ghosts of at least a dozen lords who snoozed away their afterlife on the chairs of the House and could not be persuaded to move to any other location.
“Before we get down to the matter in hand,”continued the Judge’s bewigged ghost,“does everyone have the minutes of the previous meeting?”
Several of the assembly unenthusiastically held up an inch-thick wad of mouldy papers that recorded every word spoken at the last meeting of the Parliament. Several other ghosts looked sheepishly through their feet.
A man dressed as a cavalier from the seventeenth century called out,“Surely we don’t have to read the minutes at an extraordinary meeting - only regularmeetings?”
“At our last extraordinary meeting, which you may remember was to deal with the influx of military ghosts at the time of the Second World War,”Judge Hawkins responded, with the air of someone delighted to show off their superior knowledge of procedure,“we did indeed read the minutes of the 1925 regular Parliament. I recall we made 116 major, and 1,327 minor amendments to their text.”
“Yes,”muttered the Cavalier under his breath,“and you suggested nearly all of them.”
The ghost with the leather apron and red hair who had threatened Iona two nights previously rose to his feet an growled,“This is a waste of time.”
“Ha!”cried a thin wizened figure, dressed in rags with rattling chains hanging from his wrists and ankles, “We’ve got no shortage of timeMr. Todd.”
“I’m not so sure, me clankin’friend,”Mr. Todd’s ghost replied, “we’re’ere to discuss the three exorcists who’ave been
banishin’ghosts from coast to coast. They’ave already cut short the time of several of our number. We must act.”
There was a mumble of approval.
“Quite right,”piped up the Grey Monk. When he spoke several of the other ghosts rolled their eyes (some literally popped out and rolled along the floor). He did not notice the reception his words had received as he continued, “Yes, quite right! I was attacked in my monastery. I would have faded out without Mr. Turpin’s help; he knew a thing or two about the life of the dead.”
“Procedure,”rumbled Judge Hawkins,“we must follow procedure.” He waited for silence before continuing,“Now the minutes of the previous meeting…”
“Quite right,”said the Grey Monk again,“procedure must be followed.”
The Judge cleared his throat and began to read. “The minutes of the thirty-first demicentennial meeting of the Parliament of the Dead, held in the House of Lords, Westminster, the thirteenth day of January, the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty five. Those in attendance were Billie Carlton, Henry Chaucer, George Overs, George the Phantom Cavalier, Mary Shelley, Gary the Gibbering Ghoul of Greenwich, Lord Horatio Nelson, Sweeney Todd, Mrs. Margery Lovett...”
Several of the assembled ghosts fell into the sort of bored stupor that only those who have been dead for more than a century can master. The list of names seemed endless.
“Sir Walter Walton, The Wailing Nun, Edgar Allen Poe, Nubkheperra, Henutmehyt, the unnamed Singer of Amen Re, the Man in Grey (the Theatre Royal), the Man in Grey (the Pig and Whistle public house)…”
“This is ridiculous!” Mr. Todd was on his feet again. “The last bloomin’meeting took seventy-two hours, it will take longer than that just to read the bloomin’minutes. Our people are being attacked! I say we fight back, and we fight back now!”
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