Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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after the briefest pause, he kept on walking.
The whispers of the murdered followed him.
He heard them now, like dying breaths: still murmuring against him. Eight centuries had passed, but they would let him have no peace. The prison-house still echoed with their sighs.
Dominicain’s eyes grew focused once again. The crawling shadows on the page congealed into words.
I have come to set fire upon the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.
He let the sentence sink into his heart. Then he took a cigarette, and put it in his mouth.
Someone came and lit it without waiting to be told.
4
Claire found Martin lying on the sofa: slouched there with his feet drawn up, the TV handset busy in his hand. Cricket flickered on, and off; now Neighbours; now a game-show – each fleeting image zapped into oblivion.
She watched the jerky montage, feeling sick. ‘Hi,’ she said. He barely glanced around.
A solid lump had grown inside her stomach. ‘Had a good day?’
He stretched his arm out – ‘Nope’ – and brought the cricket back again. He had his jeans and T-shirt on. She watched his biceps flexing, tanned and smooth.
How long since he had given her a squeeze?
She moistened her lips and waited, but he showed no further interest. After a minute, she glanced round at the wall. ‘Hello, wall. Would you like to hear my news?’
Martin didn’t bother to respond. She stared at the screen; then walked around in front of it, and switched the TV off. ‘Hey!’ he snapped. She turned, to find him scowling up at her.
‘I was watching …’
‘No, you weren’t.’ She gazed into his sullen face – the face she thought she loved. Clean-cut features, deep, dark eyes; high cheekbones, chiselled nose. A face for magazines and films … except he looked too boyish. Too cheeky when he smiled, perhaps. Too moody when he didn’t.
She felt a sudden rush of fear. He seemed unreal, too far away to touch.
He settled back. ‘Okay, so what’s your news, then?’
She came and knelt in front of him. He was still pointing the handset at the TV; she took his wrist, and aimed it at her midriff.
‘I’m pregnant, Martin. Here. Try zapping that.’
1
Again they’d clubbed him down with their narcotics; but in his dreams he rose again, and wandered through the corridors of Hell. The colony appeared in ruins, its gateways overgrown. Owls were hooting from the chimney-tower. The shadows were unquiet, full of whispering and sobs.
Dominicain advanced into the labyrinth. A creeping fear came over him – as if this were some giant spider’s lair. But something brushed his face, and drew him onward: a summons as elusive as a sigh.
He saw a light ahead of him – unfolding in the darkness like a flower. The glow was pale, unhealthy, and he wavered for a moment; then started down the passageway towards it. As he glided closer, it resolved into a face: a deathly visage, hanging in the gloom. The eyes were like two windows on the inky dark beyond.
They watched him come, those empty eyes. And then the phantom spoke.
Be patient in your cell, devoted friend.
The term of thy imprisonment is done.
Await the man of power whom I shall send.
The language was Italian – the Tuscan dialect he spoke himself. He didn’t recognize the lines, and yet they were familiar. Their richness and arrangement made him think of Dante’s work.
Not quoted this time, though. They spoke to him.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded hoarsely.
The white face didn’t answer that; instead it threw the focus back on him.
You shall become that Hound the poet saw,
Who drives the hungry She-Wolf back to Hell,
And brings the rule of justice to the poor.
Dominicain was dumbstruck. He recognized that image from the Comedy of Dante: his Inferno. He stared in disbelief – then shook his head.
‘But how can it be me? I am condemned.’
The other stayed inscrutable. He had to be a Messenger, Dominicain thought wildly. A being of light, beneath his cloak of darkness.
So who had pleaded for his soul, to win him this remission?
‘The lady who has charge of me …’ He hesitated. ‘Is she one of the blessed?’
The other seemed to ponder that; then moved his solemn head from side to side.
She owes allegiance to a darker power.
It may be she will seek to hinder you.
So you must show no pity in that hour.
Dominicain absorbed that wisdom grimly. He was just about to speak again when everything dissolved. His soul came winging back along the darkened corridors, returning to his body like a sparrow to its nest.
His dull, unfocused eyes slid halfway open, but he lay there like a dead man until morning. The apparition’s rhythmic words still throbbed in his head.
2
Martin’s breathing body stirred beside her, but it felt as if she was lying here alone. Nestled against his naked back, Claire tried to warm herself – but the lump of ice inside her didn’t melt. His heartbeat pulsed in time with hers; but his mind was silent, locked inside his skull.
The bedside clock said two a.m.; it might as well be lunchtime. She didn’t think she’d ever get to sleep.
If only she could tell what he was thinking. If only she could see into his dreams. Maybe then she’d understand the welter of emotions he had shown. There’d been a spark of wonder, to be sure. She’d snatched at it, ignoring the dismay. Then he’d lost his rag, and started shouting. All her fault: she’d done it just to trap him. How dare you even think that? she’d yelled back. As the fight raged round the flat, she’d realized he was scared. Frightened of commitment in itself – or by their prospects? She wouldn’t blame him, if it was the latter. She was bloody terrified as well.
But later, when he’d quietened down, the fear had still been there. She’d peeped into the living room, and seen him trying to read. His skin looked cold and milky pale; his eyes like haunted wells.
She’d had a horrid notion then. He looked like someone diagnosed with cancer – frightened for the people whom his illness would drag down. The family who didn’t even know … It couldn’t be. She’d crushed the inkling out. But two nights later, here it was – still smouldering.
For God’s sake, don’t be stupid. He wouldn’t keep a thing like that from me.
At least he hadn’t packed his bags. At least she had his body in her arms. She sniffed, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. A single tear ran down onto his skin. She’d cried at work today, as well – in front of John, who’d watched with solemn eyes. She wondered what he’d made of it. His cryptic mind was just as hard to read.
Subsiding into sleep at last, she dreamed of spiders creeping up the bed: dozens of them, all spindly legs and petrol-bloated bodies.