Dark Ages. John Pritchard
Читать онлайн книгу.
has not been cut.’
Lawrence spread his hands, his smile a study in bemusement. ‘But nobody can live that long. Do you see my problem?’
‘No, dottore. I see your unbelief.’ And as he spoke, he stirred himself, sat forward – so abruptly that the others almost flinched. Yet before they could react he was slouching back again: drawing deep upon the ember of his dying cigarette.
Silence in the room. The smoke had spread like fusty wings, brooding over the four chairs. Lawrence leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin against his interlocking hands.
‘You still maintain that you’re a priest?’
‘I am ordained in Holy Church,’ John said: matter-of-fact, monotonous again.
‘Do you belong to any order?’
‘Ordo Praedicatorum.’
The Order of Preachers, as one contributor to the case notes had helpfully explained. Better known as the Dominicans. Black Friars. Black for their cloaks, so Lawrence recalled. The friar’s habit would be white; and sure enough, John wore no other shade. Hence the institutional pyjamas, which Lawrence cordially disliked. The clients wore their own clothes here: the clinical environment was consciously played down. But John had been found wandering, a tramp in filthy rags, and refused to wear the clothes that he’d been offered. The starch-white shirt and trousers were an interim resort – but had now become his permanent attire. He still rejected shoes and socks; his bare feet brown and callused, tough as hide.
Lawrence sat up straighter; gave an understanding nod.
‘The reason you’re here, John … as I’ve explained before … is that we believe that you suffer from delusions. That you can see this past, quite clearly, in your head – but it’s something your mind has created.’
John didn’t rise to that. He sucked on the last spark, his eyes reptilian.
Lawrence glanced down at the file. ‘Are you taking your medication? Your drugs?’
A sneer convulsed the other’s lips. ‘So am I free to choose?’
‘Don’t fight against them, John. They’ll help you see.’
John slowly shook his head. ‘They make me blind. I must be wakeful.’
‘What for?’
‘That Day. The Day of Anger. It comes soon.’
Andrews made a dutiful note.
Lawrence regarded his client thoughtfully; then tried one final tack.
‘You let us call you John. Wouldn’t you prefer it if we called you by your own name?’
John met his gaze full on for several seconds. ‘I do not remember it.’
The same response as usual. ‘So what do you call yourself ?’
Normally John stonewalled that; but not this time. Though his face remained defiant, a shadow seemed to cross it: a tremor raised by turbulence deep down. He wavered for a moment … then let his last lungful of smoke stream out, like a dead man’s final breath.
‘Dominicain,’ he said.
Cain was the bit that Lawrence’s mind latched onto. Intrigued, concealing his excitement, he leaned forward.
‘That’s interesting. Because you’re a Dominican?’
Once more the other shook his head. His look was almost pitying.
‘Because I have done murder, dottore. Because I am a murderer for Christ.’
1
‘Come,’ said the voice, ‘let us bury our dead.’
Dominicain’s eyes snapped open. A group of men were towering above him, like silhouettes against the milky sky. All of them were cloaked in black, with black scarves round their faces. He recognized their kind at once: he’d watched them carry coffins to the death-pits. The only figures moving in a landscape of decay. The sight awoke a long-forgotten dread.
Becchini …
He tried to rise; his limbs would not obey him. Numbness soaked through every muscle. He was dimly aware of lying on his bed – but the bed itself had sunk into the ground. Walls of dark earth hemmed him in. He realized he was waiting in his grave.
‘No!’ he gasped, and fought to raise an arm. Anything to show them he was still alive. But his own flesh had disowned him. His mind felt like a broken egg: a sticky, mingled pulp of white and yolk. The worst thing was, he was aware of it.
The sinister becchini showed no interest in his struggles. Their eyes were blank above their muffling scarves. But as he tried to lift his head, he glimpsed another figure, further back. A young girl, wrapped in black as well – but her face was bare, her head uncovered. She had blue eyes, and hair like golden corn. He recognized the woman who’d been given charge of him. He tried to reach her with his stare; but she just dropped her gaze, and turned away.
A shovelful of earth was thrown on him. It lay there, cold and heavy on his chest. He couldn’t even roll to shake it off. Then the rasp of shovels really started; an avalanche of dirt came pouring down. The becchini worked in grim, relentless silence, blocking out the sky like carrion birds. He made to scream – and soil filled his mouth. He choked in helpless horror, and the world was blotted out.
‘What did he say?’ Claire frowned.
‘Sounded like bikini,’ murmured Richard with a grin. ‘They’re all the same, these fundy types. All bloody hypocrites.’
She glanced at him, then back towards the bed. John lay prostrate, fully clothed; still mumbling to himself. Slipping in, she checked his chart to see what was prescribed. The dose had clearly laid him out. Chemical cosh, she thought, and pursed her lips. She looked at Jan the cleaner, who had kept on working calmly by the window; then hung the chart, and straightened up again. Peering down at John. His face was sweaty.
‘Coming?’ Richard asked her from the doorway. Their break was ticking by, of course. She’d asked to just look in on John, on their way to the canteen. Pulling her cardigan closer, she turned to the door – then looked at Jan.
‘It sounded like Italian. Was it?’
Jan – Gianna – shrugged. Her face was thoughtful. ‘I think he say becchini. Many times.’
‘And what’s that mean?’
‘The gravediggers,’ said Jan; then shrugged again, and went on with her mopping.
2
How can I escape Thee? I go down to the grave, and Thou art there. And now he’d risen up again: still trapped within the tenements of Dis.
He’d read the works of Dante, but even Dante hadn’t dreamed of this. The great Infernal cities had their colonies on earth. This was one – a fortress of the damned. Men possessed by devils raved around him, while lost souls walked the corridors like corpses. And this must be his punishment: to be imprisoned here while still alive.
‘What’re you thinking, John?’ Claire murmured gently, sitting down to join him at the table.
He turned his head to look at her. Could somebody so beautiful be damned? Or did she have a demon’s grin, behind that sweet, false face? An instinct said to strike at her – to claw her flesh, and see. His fingers twitched; then lay still on the tabletop again.
‘Il mio nome è Legione,’ he said softly. She didn’t understand – or