Gethsemane Hall (23 page)

“Think what’ll happen when we start tossing Molotovs.”

“That’s my point. It hears us. I don’t know how much it knows.”

“We still doing this?”

“What do you think?”

“That there’s nothing else to do.”

“Too true.”
Assume the worst,
she thought.
Assume Rose, or whatever it is at Gethsemane Hall, knows what you’re up to. Don’t give it a chance to counter. If you can. If.
Her lip curled. She’d never seen such pathetic grasping at straws.

The east wing was Handyman Central, special emphasis gardening. Wheelbarrows, hoes, rakes, spades, shears, rope, paint, stacks of wood that looked like a sampler from every fence in England. Workbenches invisible under pyramids of might-be-useful-someday junk. Rotting cardboard boxes of tools new and rusting surrounded by unidentifiable bits and bobs of metal. Jars of nails straight and bent. Scattered heaps of metallic and wooden objects that Meacham thought must have been breeding here on their own. They couldn’t possibly have been made by the hand of man. They had no purpose.

Hudson had gathered four empty paint cans, a wine bottle grimed with dust, and three of the nail jars. “Is this what you had in mind?” he asked Meacham.

“None of them are perfect, but we’ll make do. What about tubing?”

He pointed to a coil of garden hose. “Is that enough?”

Meacham laughed. “You
are
the innocent, aren’t you?” She looked around, found a hacksaw. She knocked a pile of junk off a workbench, set the hose on top and cut a section a couple of feet long. “Bring the containers,” she said and headed back outside, walking quickly back to Gray’s car. She unscrewed the gas cap, slipped the hose into the tank, bent to one end, and began to suck. For a moment, she was worried that she would hit the perfect counter: no gas. But then her mouth flooded. She choked and gagged. She felt better than she had in days. She grabbed one of Hudson’s paint cans and put the hose inside. Gas gushed into the can.

They filled the other containers.
The wine bottle might work all right,
Meacham thought. The jars, maybe. The paint cans were useless as cocktail shakers. But they could add fuel to the burn. Sturghill found a pile of cleaning rags and tore them into strips. Meacham looked at the arsenal when they were done. “We’re not exactly going to start a revolution with this.”

Sturghill said, “All we have to do is burn through one barricade.”

“Are we ready to try this?” The sun was climbing fast. Time was zipping by with so much fun.

“What about Richard?” Hudson asked.

The temptation was to leave him. Meacham doubted he would agree to come. He might be worse than a liability. If this were still Geneva, she wouldn’t hesitate. Hindmost to the devil. But those goddamned cancers of responsibility and duty were metastasizing in her gut. They were what had brought her back here to fight something that couldn’t, she now accepted, be fought. At least not by her. She’d done her best, and now she was retreating. The best victory she could hope for now was an evacuation that brought everyone still alive to safety. Her conscience, she thought, would be able to live with that. “Let’s get him,” she said. “We should all be together, do this thing once. If it works, I’m not betting on a chance at a second strike or a long delay before retaliation.”

“What if he refuses?” Hudson was watching her with that priest’s eye, judging.

Screw you, Father. I know you’re not a minister but screw you, anyway.
“He will. And we’ll drag him out. Satisfied?”

Hudson nodded. They left the bombs beside the car and headed back inside. Meacham paused in the outer hall. She thought she heard a voice. She held up a hand for silence, heard it again. It was Gray’s. He was speaking to someone. Who? Pertwee, back and not dead after all? Pertwee, dead but back all the same? She exchanged a look with the other two and made for the Great Hall. Gray was there, sitting at the table. He was leaning forward, keeping his injured back from touching the rear of the chair. He was on a wireless phone. “I realize this is short notice,” he was saying. “I appreciate your willingness to do this. I will, of course, be happy to pay for any additional expense the rush incurs.” He looked up and waved a hand at Meacham. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “That will be fine. Thank you.” He turned the phone off. “Good morning,” he said. He had changed his clothes, but his wounds hadn’t finished scabbing over, and already the arms of his shirt were gathering red stains. He was sitting very gingerly. His greeting was cheerful, but his expression was flat, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.

“Were you on the
phone
?” Sturghill demanded.

“I rather thought I was.”

“How the hell ...” she began but strode forward, grabbed the phone, turned it on and put it to her ear. The fierce hope on her face died. “Cute,” she said to Gray. “You’re a real asshole, you know that? Where do you get off playing games when we’re in this kind of trouble?”

Gray frowned. “What are you on about?”

“It’s dead,” Sturghill told Meacham. “Bastard’s talking to his imaginary friends.”

“There is nothing wrong with that phone,” Gray said. He snatched it from her hands, turned its speaker on. The Holy Grail sound of a dial tone filled the Hall. Sturghill’s eyes bugged. She took the phone back. It went silent.

“Oh, funny,” Sturghill said. “Humour. Rose,” she called, “you’re a hilarious bitch, and Hell’s too good for you.” She tossed the phone onto the table.

“Dead for us,” Meacham commented.

“Yup.”

Gray sighed, took the phone, turned it on again. Dial tone. “All right, then. I’ll dial. Whom should I call?”

Good question,
Meacham thought. The police? The Archbishop of Canterbury? Who had the best chance of hauling their sorry asses out of here? No one did. But the need for other people was there, the belief that sheer numbers would rescue them. Call for the cavalry. Call in the authorities.
Too bad you are the authorities, eh girl?
“The local police,” she decided. “Ask for DCI Kate Boulter.”
I’ll explain the problem,
she thought. Boulter would believe, she was pretty sure. Have her bring in heavy artillery. Platoons of bulldozers to cut that forest down to size.

Gray punched buttons. The phone beeped at each press. He was halfway through the number when the beeps stopped. He hesitated, pushed the last digit a few more times, held the phone to his ear. “Dead,” he said. “Sorry.”

“There’s a surprise,” Sturghill muttered.

“I shouldn’t worry,” Gray told her. “I imagine DCI Boulter will be along sooner or later.” He smiled.

“What do you mean?” Meacham asked, worried again by his cold cheerfulness.

“We’re going to be having company,” he said.

She should have been happy. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Other people to be around. But not summoned by a Gray who was not as concerned as he should be, who didn’t seem to be frightened at all, and whose sunny disposition was nothing more than a plastic turn of the lips. “Who was that you were talking to?” she asked.

At the same time, Hudson demanded, “What have you done?”

Gray answered him. “I’ve been sending out invitations. We’re going to have a party.”

In the distance, Meacham heard the growl of a diesel engine.

Art Gifford had never been on the grounds of Gethsemane Hall. His father had, in the early days of Gifford & Son Rentals, back when the “& Son” of the firm’s name was an affectionate gesture towards a young boy many years yet from joining the family concern. This was decades ago, when the Gray family was still known to have a do from time to time. Hadn’t happened once in Gifford the Younger’s career, and he’d been at this over thirty years now. The name outside the shop still read Gifford & Son, but neither his own son, or, for that matter, his two daughters, had any interest in carrying on the business. The girls were in university, and more power to them. The boy was in a band, but not a proper rock band, thanks all the same. Oh no, he was in something called N-Street, which Gifford knew was referred to in the business as a boy band. Bloody hell. He was making money off screaming ten-year-old girls and coming across as a right ponce.
Thank you, Eurovision. Thank you ever so friggin’ much.
The group’s one single was everywhere. Gifford had done his best to avoid it, had failed. It was called “River of Love.” Five high male voices harmonizing. The chorus went “Swing high, swing low / That’s the way the river flows.” Gifford did not pretend to be a poet or a man of refined musical ear, but he knew inane when he heard it. So did his mates. They made a point of playing it on the jukebox at the Stag as often as possible. The joke was evergreen, apparently. His cross to bear. And his partner in the business now was Freddie Sandiford. Hardly “& Son.” Sandiford was three years older. No problems with Freddie as far as being the junior partner went, though. Good muscle, but the business sense of a gnat. He knew it, too.

No worries about Gifford’s legacy this morning. The phone rang him out of bed. Crack of dawn, business not to open for hours yet, his answer had not been welcoming. He’d sharpened up when he heard Richard Gray’s voice. The lord of the manor wanted his services, and sooner than now. Gifford lived above the shop. He’d stormed downstairs, calling Sandiford on his mobile. He was lucky: the lorry was already loaded with what he needed, and he didn’t have to wait for Sandiford to be off and running. He was eager with the honour. He didn’t think about how much his eagerness was simply the need to answer the lure of Gethsemane Hall. He’d lived with the tug a long time, had learned to be suspicious of it. But first thing in the morning, startled awake, big commission on offer, he’d forgotten to be suspicious.

Even now, he was feeling good as he manoeuvred the truck down the narrow drive. The gate had opened for him without his having to climb out of the cab and ring. Gray must have heard his vehicle’s approach. Wasn’t the quietest beast, truth be told. Nor the smallest. Negotiating the drive’s descent was difficult. The forest pressed close and dark. Gifford had the odd impression of being a bubble moving through water, with the woods opening before him and closing again as he passed. Then he emerged from the woods and pulled into the gardens, and there were people running toward him. He recognized Gray’s friend Patrick Hudson and two of those shit-disturbers from out of town. They were staring at his vehicle as if he’d mounted rocket launchers. The younger of the two women reached his door as he was coming to a stop. She didn’t even let him open the door before she demanded, “How did you get in?”

“How’d you think?” Nutter.

The older woman was looking back up the drive. When she spoke, her voice was calmer, but she looked just as stricken as the other two. “More to the point,” she said, “how are you planning on leaving again?”

When you encounter a nutcase, you don’t give them the time of day. You certainly don’t act on their suggestions. Gifford had ignored plenty of street loons in his day, gazing straight ahead and blanking out the raving. That was what he should have done here. Instead, like a fool, he looked in his rear-view mirror. And didn’t the forest look like it had closed back over the road? Rubbish. He climbed down from his cab and walked around to the rear of the trailer.

“Why are you here?” the woman asked.

“I’m providing the tent and such, aren’t I.”

“Tent?” said Hudson.

Were they all raving? “For the party.”

“Party,” the older woman repeated, the word rasping like sandpaper in her throat. She’d turned a greyer pale.

Gifford was becoming lonely for sane company. The freaky three here hadn’t managed to dissipate the elated relief he felt in finally being
here
, but they were working on it. And where was Sandiford? He couldn’t unload and set up by himself, and he didn’t trust these characters to help out in a useful way.

Sound of a car engine. Gifford looked up the drive hopefully. There it came: Sandiford’s farting old Cortina. Gifford blinked. His eyes were being tricksy. It looked as if the forest had spat out the car, then closed up again.

Meacham watched the two men begin to set up tables and a marquee tent. Her heart sinking further every second (and she wondered how that was possible), she walked back into the Hall. Gray was still making calls. She stood in front of him until he put the phone down and gave her his full attention. “Why?” she asked.

“I want to share.”

rsvp

The call descended on Roseminster. It began with the phones. Then the virus mutated. The contagion spread through conversations, emails, text messages. By midday, flyers had appeared. They multiplied in mailboxes, on telephone poles and on lamp standards. Gethsemane Hall had been inviting the people of Roseminster in for a chat and a cuppa for centuries. For the first time, the request was made formal and flesh. The tug was irresistible. It had been growing very strong since the death of Pete Adams. Now Richard Gray had added his voice, insisting on the pleasure of everyone’s company.

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 nothing 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.