The Father's House (29 page)

Keeping his huge frame as low to the ground as he could, Father Arthur approached the passageway and listened. He knew it well because in his youth he had often assisted in carrying the sinners out, handcuffed beneath dark cloaks or wrapped in blankets, with balaclavas hiding the gags over their mouths. Sometimes they had been sedated with syringes and pushed into sleeping bags and thrown over powerful shoulders. Big strong men like himself were expected to volunteer for the task of bringing them out. He had enjoyed the undercover adventure of it all, and was briefly envious of the strong young men who had taken over from him.

Leaning down past the grating he could hear no sign of movement. He quietly descended the stone stairs and, keeping one hand on the wall to his left, he moved carefully along, ready to back into one of the many alcoves at the first sign of activity. He rounded the bend just before the path forked and thought he could hear sounds coming from the right.

Torchlight wavered in the distance and there was a rustle of whispering voices. He moved a little nearer and stopped again to listen. The whispering grew louder. It sounded like children's voices. So it wasn't a disposal after all. It was children, children playing in the woods no doubt, whose adventures had taken them into forbidden territory. It was a pity because he had nothing against children as long as they weren't his responsibility and didn't cost him anything, but they would have to be stopped before they talked to their parents or to half the neighbourhood. The last thing the Holy Leaders would want would be children playing in the disposal passageway.

He drew himself back into a deep alcove. There was a shelf piled with coils of rope and blankets at shoulder level, so he had to stoop, and he knocked his head against a row of hooks as he settled himself in. Muttering a swear word followed by a hasty prayer, he felt around in the darkness and pulled a big black cloak over himself, and waited.

With trembling fingers Dorothy hurriedly locked the cell door from the outside. Lucy put the keys in her canvas bag, grabbed Paul's hand, and shone the torch down the passage. Then they ran.

Lucy and Paul were ahead, with David immediately behind. Dorothy came last, but she was tall and had no problem seeing the torchlight over the heads in front of her. It was impossible for any of the older ones to run very fast because of Paul, and they could have screamed with the slowness of it.

“You go first,” said Lucy, pulling aside to let the others pass. “We're holding you up.”

“No, go on, quick!” David pushed them on. The blood was pounding in their ears. If the disposal officers reached the passageway entrance from the outside before they did, they would be trapped from both directions – ahead and behind.

They ran on. Suddenly Lucy found herself flat on the floor, pinned to the ground. She had let go of Paul's hand and the torch had gone flying. It flickered and went out. For a few seconds the passage was pitch dark, and then the torch flickered on again. She could see Paul pressed up against the wall to her left, a look of astonishment on his face. Her immediate thought was that his fake fur coat would have softened any blow, and then gasping and grunting noises told her that David was struggling with someone just behind her.

She screwed her head sideways to see that an enormous foot was pressed into the small of her back. David was trying to shout Run! Run! but his voice came out in a strangled cry. His arm was held by a massive hand in a grip like a vice. It belonged to a monster with a shining bald head who, at that moment, was twisting round and stretching with his free arm to reach a coil of cord from a shelf in the wall. With the foot firmly on the middle of her back Lucy was unable to move. The monster pulled David round and bent down to tie his wrists behind his back. As he did so a sharp set of teeth sank into his ankle. He cursed and shook Paul off, trying to give him a good kick as he went. Paul nipped neatly out of his way.

“You can't reach me,” he shouted. “I'm invisible.”

Lucy took her chance and rolled sideways and tried to scramble to her feet, only to be kicked down and stamped on again. Dorothy stood stock still and silent in the darkness behind them, holding a cloak and a long piece of cord in her hands. Her heart thumped and she held her breath. The man bent once more to tie David's hands, muttering incoherently. As he leaned forward Dorothy threw the cloak over his head and pulled it back under his chin. He staggered backwards, grabbing at his head, and fell. David jumped away from him and Lucy sprang to her feet. Dorothy had dropped the cord and was struggling to hold the cloak in place by twisting it behind the man's neck, while his powerful hands tugged at the cloth and he somehow managed to wriggle himself up onto his knees.

David snatched the cord up off the floor and tied it round one thick wrist. He was not strong enough to pull the hand away fully, but the other hand instinctively released its grip on the cloth and shot across in front of the neck to try and seize the cord.

Dorothy pulled the cloak down harder over the floundering head. With difficulty Lucy hung on to the two writhing wrists. She was flung from side to side as David tied them as close together as he could. There was not much time. Every second that passed could bring the disposal squad closer to them. For good measure Dorothy wound another rope firmly round the mighty neck to hold the cloak in place, and tied it in a knot at the back well away from the fettered hands.

She felt in the pockets of the monster's raincoat. They were stuffed with money, but she only took the mobile phone.

“I'm going to phone the police to tell them where you are,” she hissed close to his ear through the layers of cloth. “And I shall tell them who you are too. I saw your face when you turned. I'd know you anywhere you disgusting pervert, even without the hair.”

Lucy picked up the torch and they ran as fast as Paul's legs would permit towards the entrance to the passage.

“If you hear anyone coming,” puffed Dorothy, “hide in one of these alcoves.”

As they approached the light from the entrance Lucy switched off the torch. They hurled themselves up the steps and into what was left of the daylight.

“Give me the code, quick!” said Dorothy.

She stood to one side with the mobile phone and gave the police the code and hasty details of where to find the underground passageway, while David and Lucy closed the grating and scrabbled for the chain and the padlock.

“He's called Father Copse, but he's shaved off his hair,” Dorothy was saying.

David grabbed her arm and shouted into the phone. “His house burned down on Friday night. In Mortimor Road.”

Meanwhile Lucy had managed to twist the chain round the rods and locked the padlock.

“He'll know the code,” she said breathlessly, “but at least it'll hold him up for a couple of minutes.”

Dorothy threw down the phone.

“Ugh! I can't bear to touch his horrible stuff,” she said, wiping her hands on a piece of grass. “Gross!” She was trembling and her face was a deathly white against the black of her clothes.

“How do you know it was the police and not an infiltrator?” asked Lucy.

“I don't, but whoever they were, we don't want them to know where we are. Come on. Let's go!”

They ran, tripping and stumbling over the brambles and nettles, into the wood. The sound of a car engine from the direction of the side road made them stop for a second to listen. There was a slamming of doors followed by voices. With a final spurt they veered away, raced across a small stretch of bare ground towards the undergrowth, and threw themselves down behind the roots and twisted branches of a low growing willow. They held their breath and watched as two men hastened across the rough ground towards the grating and started working on the padlock. One of them switched on a torch shaped like a lantern, and then they lifted the grating and disappeared down the stone steps. David darted over and pulled down the grating as silently as he could. He carefully and quietly pulled part of the chain round one of the steel rods, clicked the padlock into place, and ran back to the others.

“They might have heard that, but it'll confuse them,” he said. “It'll give us a few extra seconds to get away. Let's go!”

“We can't go to the side road,” whispered Dorothy. “There might be a driver waiting for them.”

“The quickest way to the High Street would be to cut down through the Drax House garden,” said David.

“Yes. There's that narrow side path.” said Dorothy, her voice shaking. “It's a risk but there are lots of bushes. They're more likely to search for us in the woods. It won't occur to them we'd dare go through the garden.”

They hastened towards a small back gate in the fencing, opened it cautiously, and stepped inside onto a concrete path. It curved and twisted between shrubs and flowerbeds on the right-hand side of the garden all the way down to the main road.

It was still daylight but the sky was heavy and grey.

“There are lights on in the house,” whispered Dorothy. “If they look out of the window the garden will seem dark to them. Keep low and go slowly. Any quick movement might catch their attention.”

She took Paul's hand and pulled him over to her right side, so that her black clothing blocked out his cream-coloured fake fur jacket. They slipped silently down the path with pounding hearts, sometimes hidden from the house by shrubs, and sometimes totally exposed.

As they passed the kitchen area one of the aunts came out to put something in the bin. The children froze and held their breath, fully visible to anyone who cared to look. Someone called from inside the house and the aunt went in and shut the door. They scuttled behind the next set of bushes and then out the other side. There was a light on in the dining room, and as they passed the window they could see the Drax House children filing in for their supper and bowing their heads in prayer.

“Poor fools!” muttered Dorothy.

The nearer they drew to the High Street the harder it was not to run. They could almost feel the Magnifico's horrible breath on their necks.

Aunt Bertha had been sent upstairs. The others were fed up with her constant crying, and now they were all in a tizzy because of the wailing spirits in the cells.

“Pull yourselves together,” Aunt Sonia had snapped. “There's no such thing as a wailing spirit. The men have gone to investigate and there will be a simple scientific explanation.” She had turned to Bertha. “And you – go to your room and stay there till you can control your emotions.”

Now Bertha sat in the dark by the window. She didn't care about wailing spirits. All she could think of was Dorothy, David and John, and the others that she had helped raise from babyhood only to see them go the same way. She hoped the Magnifico in His mercy would forgive her, but however hard she tried she could not accept the purpose with a joyous heart. She raised her swollen eyes to the window and gazed out into the darkness. Something flickered in the garden. What a misery life was. If only some of the glories of the next world could be spared for the here and now. Whatever it was flickered again, and she leaned forward, suddenly alert.

She could just make out the shapes of the shrubs, but nothing moved. It must have been some sort of reflection from the lights downstairs. Then, sure enough, something flashed through the gap between one shrub and another and disappeared. Bertha knew that head of hair. She would have known it anywhere. Ash blond they called it – just like his mother's. She couldn't breathe. A ghost? She tried to clear the muzziness in her head. They couldn't have done it already – there wasn't time.

She strained her eyes and the darkness yielded slightly. The flicker reappeared with a shape below it this time, and other shapes before it and behind it. With her hand to her throat, Bertha watched the intermittent procession. She held her breath until it reached the gate and vanished.

The aunts were in a huddle in the kitchen, whispering about the wailing spirit. As the door opened it squeaked and they clutched each other in fright. It was only Bertha. Then they looked again and gaped at the joy in her face. She beamed at them but said nothing. Going over to the table she picked up the potato peeler and quietly got on with her work. How great was the Magnifico in His goodness and mercy!

“Look casual,” whispered Dorothy, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

She straightened her back as though she had all the confidence in the world. Nobody grabbed them. They stepped out through a little wooden gate onto the pavement and turned off to the right. Their strength dissolved immediately. Now their teeth started to chatter and their legs were like jellies. They couldn't have run if they tried. As they merged with the throng of evening shoppers two wailing police cars wove their way through the traffic. One halted directly in front of Drax House, and the other passed it and turned left up the side road.

The children turned their backs on the police cars and moved away down the hill.

“Where do we go next?” said David.

“You can come back with us.” Lucy's voice was shaking. “Come on. It's not far. Just over the common.” But it seemed very far, an eternity of forcing one foot after another, yet hardly moving. They stumbled rather than walked, and at one point Dorothy nearly fell as someone rushed past her towards the Underground station. When at last they reached the wide open space of the common their legs regained some strength and speeded up, and although they couldn't help looking behind them and around them constantly, the sense of suppressed panic subsided a little.

As they approached the bushes around the pond, something glittered.

“Stop!” whispered Lucy. “There's somebody there.”

The leaves rustled in the wind and parted for a second. Their hearts stood still.

“Who's there?” called David hoarsely. There was no reply. He stepped forward. “Phew! It's nobody. It's only my bike.” Now they could see the shiny handlebars glinting through the leaves. “Leave it,” he said, and they hurried on.