Frelsi (Book Two of The Liminality)

  Isobel trotted back from the lavatory, light on her toes and beaming. Jessica turned to Karla and winked. “Music’s driver’s choice.”

  As they passed the roundabout and entered the motorway, the car filled with the jangle and wail of mandolins and accordions. “Much better, eh?” said Jessica.

  But all music was background noise to Karla. Secular recordings of any sort had never been allowed in their household, not even classical music. Papa claimed he could detect Satanic influences in Chopin and Vivaldi, and especially Beethoven. Karla had never developed a taste for anything other than the sounds of nature. She was mighty fond of crickets.

  She stared out the window at the passing paddocks and meadows and tidy little villages, impervious to Renfrew’s witless banter and Isobel’s petty concerns. Her mind centered on James’ fate and how they might possibly intervene without provoking a battle royal. With a persecution complex well ingrained in their culture, Papa’s crowd tended to be well-armed.

  As they zoomed along the motorway, Renfrew conked out first, and soon after the sandman claimed Isobel. With one snorer in front and another in the back, even thinking became a challenge. Karla was too wired to join them.

  She counted sheep, literally, to take her mind off James and tried to be responsive to Jessica’s endless recounting of her life’s stories. Hours later, as they left Lancashire, Jessica’s narrative finally began to trail off.

  “You know, I’m starting to feel a little bit groggy,” she said. “Do me a favor, dear? Give Ren a little nudge.”

  Karla banged on his headrest and shook him by the shoulder. She leaned over and sang inches from his ear: “Oh Ren-frew! We’re in York-shire!”

  Nothing could rouse him from the depths of his slumber. It was almost as if his soul had passed into another world. Karla wondered if this was how she appeared to others when she was in Root.

  “Ah, it’s hopeless,“ said Jessica. “He sleeps like the dead. You’ll just have to give me directions once we get close to Glasgow. I’ve never been this far north.”

  “I wish I could spell you,” said Karla. “But Papa never let me sit behind a wheel. He does not believe that women should be allowed to drive.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Isobel yawned herself awake. “I’m hungry. Does anyone have any food?”

  Jessica handed back a brown paper bag. “Helen packed us some crisps and cookies.”

  “We’re making good time,” said Karla. “Once we reach Glasgow, we can stop for a late lunch, or an early dinner. There is an Italian take-away—”

  “Santini’s Kitchen!” said Isobel.

  “And they make this excellent pasta dish with melanzana.”

  “With what?”

  “Aubergines,” said Karla.

  “Oh, how I love that place!” said Isobel. “Linval used to treat us … on special occasions.”

  “Whenever he got a paying gig,” said Karla. “It’s good, but not as good as any corner shop in Roma.”

  “Or Mama’s cooking,” said Isobel.

  “True, but Mama was from the north. We actually ate more polenta than pasta at home.”

  “And risotto!” said Isobel. “Remember how she made it with the wild mushrooms? And the carpaccio on the side?”

  “Believe it or not, our family used to be relatively normal.”

  The snoring in the front seat had stopped. Though Renfrew’s head remained tilted back, one eye cracked open.”

  “Renfrew? Are you awake? I thought you were going to spell me.”

  “I will. But not without a decent lunch. And I’m not waiting a couple hours for spaghetti noodle with eggplants. Get off at the motorway at the next town, Jess. Find the nearest pub. I’ll buy us all a nice ploughman’s lunch.

  ***

  Heavy metal blaring through the speakers, they crossed the Scottish border still noshing on their crusty bread with Stilton cheese and ham slathered with Branston pickle.

  With a pint of bitter propped between his legs, Ren pushed the envelope of his little Ford’s capabilities like a test pilot, revving the engine to RPMs meant for sports cars. At times, when overtaking lorries, Karla found herself digging her fingernails into whatever was at hand, a head rest, her sister’s thigh.

  “La, stop that! You’re hurting me.”

  “Mr. Renfrew, do you really need to drive so fast?”

  “Wouldn’t have to if Jess hadn’t driven her leg like my grandmother. I was hoping to arrive in Glasgow at a reasonable hour, to what we need to do.”

  “A lot of good that does us if you get pulled over,” said Jessica.

  “Don’t you worry, girlie,” said Renfrew. “I know all the traps.”

  When they arrived at Glasgow’s city limits, Renfrew took the M74 eastwards towards Springboig. The plan was to check in with Linval to make sure he was alright, and see if he knew anything about James.

  Karla had Renfrew park on the street, not far from their old neighborhood launderette. Jessica offered to go to the door by herself, but Karla worried that he might have unwanted visitors, so they all went together. There was safety in numbers, not to mention, in Renfrew’s sidearm.

  “We should have worn those caps and shades, like I suggested,” said Isobel.

  “That would only make us look strange and attract attention,” said Karla.

  “I don’t know about that, but … whatever.”

  As they turned the corner and went up the alley, Linval’s landlord, Mr. Jones was exiting the stairwell.

  “Oh hello there, Miss Karla. Haven’t seen you much about lately. Nor, for that matter, Mr. Linval.”

  “Has he not been around?” said Karla, alarmed.

  “Well, no. But it’s not surprising, considering his rent’s overdue. Again, I realize you’re just a guest, but I’ve got bills to pay, too. I just slipped a note beneath the door but I would appreciate it if you could give him a little nudge to get his rent to me.”

  “Will do,” said Karla. “Next time I see him.”

  As Mr. Jones went back to his idling car, Karla fished in her purse for the spare key Linval had given her.

  Jessica had dropped to her knees and was reaching under a hedge. She pulled out a battered, old motorcycle helmet, the inside littered with dirt and twigs.

  “Renfrew, is this yours?”

  “Bloody hell. If that’s here, where the hell’s my fooking bike?”

  “James was here!” said Karla. “He came here.” She pushed past Isobel, trotted up the stairs, jiggled the key in the lock and shoved open the door.

  Her heart lurched. One of the kitchen chairs lay broken on its side. Bits of blood-stained duct tape were strewn on the floor.

  A guttural cry slipped loose in her throat, startling her in how much it sounded like an injured animal. Renfrew and Jessica craned their necks around the door frame.” Is everything alright?”

  “Oh Lord, this doesn’t look good,” said Renfrew. He stormed in and flicked on a light, examining the dark spatter marks on the paisley wallpaper. A muscle quivered in his chin. He fingered the weapon in his pocket. “We need to get to that church … now!”

  ***

  St. Ringan’s was only three blocks away, but they got in the car and drove, anyhow. Better to have the car closeby in case they needed to make a quick getaway. Renfrew parked across the street, facing down the road that would take them shooting out of town on the M8 East.

  St. Ringan’s was a decommissioned Catholic church that a group of Sedevacantists had purchased from the archdiocese. Karla had been alarmed to discover how close it was to Linval’s neighborhood. Henceforth, she and Isobel had given it a wide berth, lest they run into any of Papa’s friends.

  Papa did not come to Glasgow often, but St. Ringan’s was known to his network. She had heard him speak of it in meetings with fellow travelers. His group was expanding rapidly, forming alliances with other Catholic splinter groups, acquiring properties throughout Scotland.

  Members of his cult w
ere a tight lot, well known to one another. St. Ringan’s would have provided the most obvious haven in Glasgow for confining and interrogating James and Linval.

  Isobel shoved a knit cap into Karla’s lap, and this time she relented and put it on. At least the weather was cool enough for a cap, with clouds coming on, hinting of a steady rain to come.

  The sunglasses, though, were a bit much, oversized and goofy, borrowed from Helen at the last moment. They looked less like movie stars hiding from paparazzi than a couple of precocious lady pensioners.

  Renfrew peered up at the mirror and adjusted his clip-on tie. “Ready, Jess?”

  Jessica nodded.

  “Well then, wish us luck.” He opened the door of the car and stepped out.

  “Remember, kneel before you enter and exit the pews,” said Isobel. “And make the sign of the cross. Coming and going. At the door of the church as well. And when you pass any image of the Lord Jesus or the Virgin Mary.”

  “Izzie, they know all this stuff,” said Karla. “We’ve been through it over and over.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to go over it one more time,” she said. “One slip-up and they’re sunk.”

  “So what if there’s like a whole wall of them?” said Renfrew, with a chuckle. “Does once suffice for all, or do we have to do one for each?”

  “No laughing!” said Isobel. “Never in church. Solemnity shows respect.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have told me that,” said Renfrew. “You’ll give me a case of the giggles.”

  “Don’t worry girls, I’ll keep him in line,” said Jessica, poker-faced. “Come on, you.”

  Renfrew nodded and started across the street, striding one step ahead of Jessica. Isobel took Karla’s hand and squeezed it as they watched from the back seat. They trotted up the stairs of the church which was littered with bags of cement and plastic buckets of paint.

  They tried the door, but found it locked. They lingered on the top step until a man in coveralls came out and spoke with them. They reversed course down the steps and crossed back to the car.

  Karla unrolled her window. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s closed … for renovations,” said Renfrew.

  “I caught a peek inside,” said Jessica. “The place is empty. No pews. No parishioners. Just work men.”

  “Hmm, James didn’t mention any construction.”

  “So … shall we move on?” said Renfrew.

  Karla felt torn. It would have been so convenient for Papa to take them here. It was just down the road from Linval’s.

  She pushed open the door and bolted out. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Karla, wait!” said Jessica. “Let me go.”

  But she was already charging across the street and trotting up the church steps. A man held the door open for another man who was carrying in a sack of concrete. He stopped Karla as she tried to enter.

  “Hold on, miss. This church is closed.”

  “Please! I need to check quickly … down in the basement. I left something behind before the work started … something very precious to me.”

  The man shrugged. “Alright, but make it quick. Careful on those stairs. The treads are loose and rotten.”

  She jogged across the open and space, her steps booming in the emptiness. The altar had been shifted back under the apse, where it had likely been before Vatican II. Its power seemed magnified in the absence of pews.

  The door to the basement was off its hinges. An orange work lamp dangled like a pendulum over the stairs. The treads were not only loose, but some of them were missing.

  Easing her way down to the windowless darkness below, she took off her sunglasses and flicked on a light switch. She found herself in a cluttered function room with checkerboard linoleum tile. Catechism posters and teaching materials for were heaped at the end of a long table that also held a tarnished coffeemaker and a tea service. Stacks of folding chairs leaned against a wall.

  There were more store rooms off the main, but nothing resembling the stone-lined hallway and dungeon-like spaces that James had tried to describe to her. This was a modernized, finished basement, the walls plastered and painted, beams hidden by a dropped ceiling with bright fluorescent lighting recessed above fire-proof panels.

  This place was way too cheery for Papa’s tastes. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if he had the workmen strip everything back down to stone and stuck dim, guttering candles in sconces.

  She poked through the stack of tracts, coloring books and Bible comics. They all looked like ordinary Catholic stuff, nothing that a Sedevacantist would find appropriate for catechism.

  This church must have been a recent acquisition. They had not yet rid the place of traces of the ‘false papists,’ a process that would undoubtedly involve a night of prayer before a Holy bonfire.

  She felt a spurt of relief that there would be no confrontation here, but it also meant that there would be no possibility of rescue for James today. They had to go on to Inverness, now.

  That realization sank like an anchor into the muck of a deep, dark lake. The next stop would be St. Aynsley’s, that den of terror and shame in the heart of Papa’s stomping grounds.

  She had been hoping to avoid Inverness altogether as it was thick with his cronies and associates. Here, in Glasgow, at least he would have had less support. They might have even had the chance to corner him alone. But that was not to be.

  She was about to leave when she noticed a dog-eared notebook lying atop a cardboard box. Spiral bound, its plain, red cover was coated with dust.

  She thumbed through it, finding it dense with page after page of sloppy script, lists of numbers and odd, little sketches. She tucked it under her arm and skipped up the stairs. If nothing else, the notebook would maintain her pretense of having to come down to fetch something.

  ***

  Back in the car with Renfrew at the wheel, they rolled out of East Glasgow and onto the M8, heading towards Falkirk. They had a long drive ahead, and would not reach Inverness till well after nightfall.

  With rapt fascination, Isobel thumbed through the notebook that Karla had taken. The tiny, cramped scrawl had pained Karla’s eyes when she had tried to read it. Isobel had more patience for such things.

  “What’s that you have there, Izzie?” said Jessica, twisting around in the front seat.

  “It’s quite fascinating! Part diary, part ledger, part doodle book.”

  “Is it from one of your father’s friends?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s full of gossip, confessions, prayers for forgiveness. Quite personal. Scandalous. Who would leave such a thing lying around?”

  “I’m not Catholic so I don’t know how these things work,” said Jessica. “But might it be someone’s notes for the confessional? Surely you folks must need to keep track of these things if you’re to be absolved of them all.”

  “Well, usually you just remember,” said Isobel. “I’ve never heard of anyone with so many sins, they had to write them down in a book. Oh, my gosh! Some of this is most unsuitable for someone my age to be reading.”

  “Hang onto that book, Missy. I might like to have a look,” said Renfrew.

  “Is there no mention of James?” Karla felt disembodied from her voice, as if she had no physical connection to its generation.

  “There’s nothing, La. They don’t even mention Papa, though they do talk a lot about Inverness and something called the Center with a capital C.”

  “The Center. That’s St. Aynsley’s,” said Karla. “That’s Papa.”

  “I can’t believe this person,” said Isobel. “Here, they’re praying for the Lord to help them win the lottery and promising the church a cut. How crass! That doesn’t sound like one of our crowd.”

  “Oh? Would they not ask for divine lottery intervention?” said Jessica. “Are they too pure for that?”

  “Too pure, my arse,” said Renfrew. “You saw all the blood in that kitchen. What kind of church participates in that kind of thuggery? Roughi
ng up a fine young man like Linval, for what? Giving shelter to runaways? His own cousins, no less.”

  “Papa has no fear of spilling blood or inflicting pain,” said Isobel. “He calls it purifying.”

  “So long as it’s not his own,” said Renfrew. “Oh, I know his type well. He’s a bully of the worst order. But, don’t you worry, my darlings, we’ll put things right. I won’t stand for this. I won’t stand down until we get this done.”

  The conversation in the car hit a lull and the absence of voices allowed Karla to retreat further into her head. Power chords rattled Renfrew’s speakers like buzz saws. The wind whistled through a partially open window.

  As low as she had felt before, the bottom had now fallen out of Karla’s mood. She felt stuck between worlds, repelled by both, with no clear longing to be in either. All that mattered anymore was to be with James. Wherever.

  But she had no desire to be stuck in the wilderness of the Liminality alone. James said he would wait for her at that canyon. But what if he couldn’t keep his promise? What would she do? Make her way to Frelsi?

  The prospect of returning to Inverness filled her with even more foreboding, even though James was almost certainly there, unless … Papa had taken him to Aberdeen.

  Karla prayed for the roots to come and take her, but she felt nothing, not a rustle or prickle to hint of their presence. Instead, her soul dangled over the far more vast and terrifying void between worlds.

  Chapter 28: Hollow

  As Renfrew sped towards Inverness, Karla’s head bounced with every bump, colliding with the rear window. Under her gaze, the meadows shed their glow and grayed as the sun sank deep beneath the hills. Renfrew’s CD player had stopped playing its raucous fare. No one spoke.

  Karla hovered in a semi-sleep, having given up her longing for the roots to come take her. And whether she had schemed for it or not, that very act of giving up had provided the roots their cue, luring them after her.

  They came and took her without warning or fanfare, dragging her over the edge and through the void in one smooth swipe, dumping her onto a sandy trail reeking of Reaper.

  She lay on her back on the pitted plains, staring up at alien stars arranged in unfamiliar constellations, and waited for her senses to pull together and make her whole. Always, some parts of her senses and soul lagged behind in these transitions. She had learned be patient over many crossings.