‘I shall, of course, do what I can, but I am only one man. You must protect me from the greed of your friends.’
Emilia cackled. ‘Think I want to share you? No. Don’t worry. I’ll brush your tracks. Give me back my life and power, and there’s nothing I won’t do for you.’
Othman smiled. He felt a faint stirring of respect for the woman. ‘Then I shall look upon you as my right-hand woman.’
‘Left hand,’ said Emilia, lifting her glass. ‘Let’s get that right.’
Chapter Eleven
When she’d got back from The White House, Lily had told Owen about Peverel Othman’s behaviour with Barbara. Owen had reacted strongly. ‘Seems like he’s playing with all of us!’ It was the first time he’d alluded, however thinly, to what had transpired in the parlour when Othman had looked on.
‘I wonder what he wants,’ Lily said. She told Owen about how Othman had been planning to take them out to dinner.
‘So he could come back here afterwards?’ Owen snapped. ‘We must be careful, Lil. I don’t want a repeat of that.’
Lily felt ashamed, as if she was personally responsible for what had happened.
Lily and Owen were sitting watching television in the parlour when Othman arrived. Both seemed flummoxed to see him, but it was now after nine. ‘I would have come earlier,’ he said, ‘but I took a lady out for a drink.’
‘Barbara?’ Lily demanded, looking sad she’d been unable to prevent the word bursting from her.
Othman laughed. ‘Emilia Manden, actually.’
Lily frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, I’m very interested in local history, and Emilia is a mine of information.’ He sat down in a chair before the fire.
Owen was studying him carefully, as if unsure of what to say or do. ‘Little Moor seems to be a source of fascination for you,’ he said. ‘I can’t think why.’
Othman gestured with open hands. ‘The world is a fascinating place, and I travel within it. I come to places like this to unearth their secrets. There are always plenty.’
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Lily, getting up.
Othman waited for her to go into the kitchen. ‘Owen, I think you can help me.’
‘Oh?’ Owen would not sit down. ‘How?’
‘I’d like to see inside the church you took me to the other night.’
‘It’s locked.’
‘Then perhaps we can break in.’
Owen grinned in a tight, guarded way. ‘All right. But why?’
Othman leaned forward on his seat. ‘I’m finding out interesting things about Little Moor. Things that I think will interest you too.’
He noticed Owen looked wary immediately. Clearly he had his own secrets. ‘Such as?’
Othman shrugged. ‘It can wait. Do you know anything about the family that used to live in the manor house, Long Eden?’
Owen pulled a face. ‘No. They’ve gone. Have you unearthed some scandals about them, or something?’ He didn’t seem that interested.
‘There’s more to them than you think.’ He decided, for now, to keep the information about the Winters’ connection with Long Eden a secret. He wanted to observe the twins for a while longer before he told them about it.
‘So what’s in it for you?’ Owen asked, sarcastically. ‘Other than an academic interest, of course.’
‘You seem to have a poor view of me,’ Othman said.
Owen shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. I wonder what we got into with you, the other night. You were playing with us. I’m not too pleased about that. It’s upset Lily.’
‘I don’t want to upset anyone, least of all Lily.’
‘What are you, some kind of sick pervert?’
Othman had not expected such a hostile reaction from Owen. He felt he was losing ground with the boy.
At that moment, Lily came back in, carrying a tray. She obviously sensed the atmosphere, but chose to ignore it. Owen still stood belligerently next to Othman’s chair. Othman wished he could put him at his ease. He’d seemed fine when Othman had arrived.
‘So what are these Crantons like, then?’ he asked Lily.
‘You’d better ask Owen,’ she replied, pouring tea and avoiding Othman’s eyes. ‘I hardly know them. Owen’s very friendly with Daniel Cranton.’
‘They’re all right,’ Owen said in a mulish tone.
Othman was alert to the nuances in tone, and mentally filed a note about it. ‘Can we go to the church tonight, Owen?’
‘Church?’ Lily was frowning.
‘I want to get inside it,’ Othman said to her. ‘Your brother says that will mean breaking in.’
Lily shrugged. ‘Yes. I expect so. But there’s nothing of interest in there. It’s virtually bare. The pews and everything are all fairly modern, and there are clean spaces on the walls where things must have been hung up in the past. It’s not a very inspiring church.’
Othman remembered Emilia’s words about how the Murkasters had taken everything away with them when they’d left the village. Some things, however, they might not have thought to take with them in their hurry. Thoughts, feelings, the recordings of experience that might still linger in the stones of the church. ‘Well, let’s just say I have a talent for sensing things that aren’t there. It doesn’t matter to me if the walls are bare.’
‘You’d better take torches,’ Lily said. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t want to come.’ She grinned, and then, as a troublesome thought obviously crossed her mind, the grin slowly fell from her face. ‘Will you be coming back afterwards, Pev?’ It was the first time she’d called him by the nick-name.
He shook his head. ‘No, not tonight.’ He detected the wave of relief that flooded through Owen’s body.
Outside, the night had succumbed to a faint misty drizzle. Owen wore a huge old parka coat with the hood up, but by the time they’d walked half-way to the church, Othman’s hair was soaked.
‘I hope all this is worth it!’ Owen said. They had reached the lych-gate.
Othman shone his torch around. ‘There’s no sign of the name of the church anywhere. St Shem’s, isn’t it?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Yeah, I think so. I suppose this place is a bit weird. No name, its innards removed, so to speak. Did that happen at the same time those Murkaster characters took themselves off?’
‘I think so, yes.’
Owen grinned. ‘This is getting interesting after all. What have you uncovered? Dark doings?’
‘We can but hope,’ Othman said dryly, pushing open the lych-gate. He thought it puzzling that Lily and Owen hadn’t pieced things together for themselves. They were curious people, yet they’d never thought to turn their curiosity towards Long Eden, the church and the vanished Murkasters. Either their mother or their father must have had something to do with that.
Othman and Owen walked up the slight slope to the church. It stood squat and huddled in the rain, as if its shoulders were hunched against the weather. Othman prowled around the outside of the building, looking for a way in. Owen stood a short distance off, shining the torch obligingly in the directions Othman indicated. They found a cracked window on the north side of the building, which appeared to belong to a sort of kitchen area. When they shone the torch through the glass, they saw a stainless steel sink and a drainer. Bars covered the window, but it was clear they weren’t that secure. ‘If we could get a few of the bars out as carefully as we can,’ Othman said, ‘we might be able to make it look as if no-one’s been in there afterwards. Put them back.’
‘OK.’ Owen tugged at one of the bars and a stream of powdered stone fell down the wall. ‘I hope there’s nothing guarding this place — from the inside!’ He laughed.
Othman, for once, was not inclined to share the laughter. The thought had occurred to him too and he had far more idea than Owen what such a guardian could be like. Tension seemed to condense around them as they worked on the bars. Othman attempted conversation to lighten the atmosphere. ‘So, do people actually still use this place as a church
?’
‘Yeah, but not that often. There’s a vicar comes out now and again, but I’ve never been here then, so they could be conducting the Black Mass up here for all I know!’
‘When have you been here, then?’
‘Oh, our mother brought us up a couple of times when we were kids. She liked to sit in the church and think. We used to play outside mostly.’
Othman had a very clear image of Helen Winter in his head. Sitting in a ray of sunlight on the bare pews, wearing a light, summery dress, her legs bare, a posy of wild flowers clutched in her lap, her eyes raised dreamily to the place where once Shemyaza had hung. ‘The ring stone,’ Othman said. ‘What is its significance?’
Owen glanced at him, looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Oh, that. We just used to lark around when we were kids, that’s all. Games, you know.’
Othman gave him a wry smile. ‘So what was all that performance the other night in aid of?’
‘You wanted entertainment, you got it. Are you complaining?’
Othman laughed quietly, but said nothing. He pulled another bar free. ‘Can you get your skinny arse through here now?’
‘Uh-oh. You go first, Mr Othman!’ Owen shone the torch through the hole.
Othman knocked out some of the loose glass and squeezed his way in. ‘Hand me the torch. Are you coming in, lily-boy, or what?’
Owen dropped onto the tiled floor beside him. They were in a small room, which was empty, but for the sink and drainer. It was clear that cupboards had once adorned the walls, but they had been removed. A door led into a short corridor, and from there into the main body of the church. Othman thought the design was unusual. It did not speak traditional church to him at all. Still the atmosphere seemed fairly dead. He cautiously extended his senses as he swept the beam of his torch around the cavernous inner space. Nothing. Just a few faint echoes that meant very little. Owen stood beside him. ‘You see. There’s nothing much here.’
‘Mmm.’ Othman walked up to the altar, which was covered with a mildewed white draping. The whole place smelled musty and damp. A bowl of dead flowers stood on the floor. He shone the torch upon the brass crucifix behind the altar, straining to feel something, anything. Very faintly, an image came: the hanged man, hanging from one foot, bound for eternity. Othman closed his eyes, willing the image to become clearer. According to the legends, Shemyaza’s physical body had been destroyed by his people, after his transgressions with humanity had been discovered, while the body of his soul, his immortality, had been cast into the constellation of Orion, where it still hung to this day. Now, the effigy of the rebel leader burned in Othman’s mind’s eye. It pressed upon him urgently, like a silent, insistent reminder of something he had forgotten. Othman shuddered and opened his eyes, sucking in his breath. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him, making him sense what he wanted to sense, see what he expected to see.
Emilia had spoken of a perpetual flame that had once burned here, in this building. But where? Again, he swept the torch beam around the vaulted room, catching Owen in the light, his pale hair stark, his face hollow. Son of Shemyaza, Othman thought, and smiled. Could he tell Owen now? No, not yet. Then as the torchbeam raked across the corbels overhead, Othman caught sight of a significant carving. He swept the beam backwards, spot-lighting the stone figure of an angel, bound and hanging upside-down. It was the Fallen One. Looking up at the image of Shemyaza, captured in stone, made Othman feel as if he had been punched in the stomach. He lowered the beam, still conscious of the figure hanging unseen above him.
‘Here, hold this.’ He handed Owen the torch. ‘Can you just sit quietly while I do a little work?’
Owen shrugged. ‘If you want. What kind of work?’
Othman tapped his head. ‘Using this.’ He took off his jacket. He felt the strongest reluctance to face the image of Shemyaza again, but knew he must suffer it, for the sake of acquiring knowledge.
Owen sighed and sat down on the front pew. He watched, with obvious rising disquiet, as Othman began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Stripping off. What does it look like?’
Owen laughed nervously. ‘Why? It’s freezing! Are you crazy?’
‘A little cold never hurt anyone, and no, I’m not crazy. I just need to use my skin, that’s all.’
‘Weird.’ Owen stood up and walked to the back of the church, apparently examining the empty walls.
Othman ignored him. Once naked, he sat down upon his clothes and assumed a meditative posture. Was there anything left of ‘Saint Shem in this place? He had to find out.
In the first image, it was summertime and the church door was open, admitting the light. Shadowy people sat upon the floor. There were no pews. The walls were adorned with pictures of serpents and peacocks. The bronze effigy of Shemyaza was exquisite, almost life-size. He hung there, naked but for his bonds, his hair trailing down like a sheaf of corn or a sheaf of feathers. Peacock feathers and corn-ears were plaited into his hair. One eye was open, staring into eternity, the other closed. He neither smiled nor frowned. In his mind, Othman made obeisance to this image. He both honoured and feared it. In his life, he had inflicted pain upon many people without feeling the slightest twinge of compassion, yet contemplation of Shemyaza’s martyrdom kindled panic in Othman’s heart. Perhaps it was the same for all his people.
The second image was more specific. A group of people were dismantling the church, or more accurately the temple, in a hurry. The effigy of Shemyaza was taken down and wrapped in linen, bound with cords. The paintings were removed and stacked in enormous crates. The silverware, the cups of gold were similarly packed away. Outside, it seemed a war was taking place in the sky. Unnatural beams of light crashed through the high windows of the building, as if seeking out prey, which Othman recognised as the presence of Kerubim. People cringed and scuttled away from the light. They were all human. The Grigori were elsewhere. Othman directed his inner sight around the room. The perpetual flame burned within the altar, yet he could see it was only a tiny discharge of something far more powerful. The true flame had never resided here in the church. This place had been constructed mainly for the benefit of the villagers. What had the Murkasters done to provoke the wrath of the Parzupheim? As far as Othman could tell, their activities had been fairly harmless and commonplace, although they seemed to have involved more of the local community than was normally thought wise, and had certainly flirted with revealing some of their secrets. Was that it? But in that case, why the apparent full-force attack upon the house of Murkaster? It was bizarre. For his own reasons, Othman objected to those who sought to govern the movements of others of his kind. His movements, after all, would always be considered suspect. His heart went out to the Murkasters. He felt he knew exactly what had happened to them, and it was not a flight into exile.
He was about to draw himself back to full consciousness, when a final image blazed across his mind. The gate! As he stared at it, it flickered before him, transforming into a myriad representations of portals — stone, wooden, trellises of light — some gigantic, some tiny, mere mouseholes. Then, as quickly as it had come, the image disappeared.
Shuddering, Othman pulled his mind back into the present, and sat blinking upon the cold stone. Owen must have heard him sigh. Othman heard his feet upon the flagstones behind him.
‘Well?’ said Owen.
Othman shook his head. He felt stiff, ancient. ‘Help me up.’
Reluctantly, Owen offered his hand. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Othman slumped down onto the front pew. ‘Hand me my things, would you.’ His soaking hair had stuck to his back and shoulders.
‘What did you find out?’
Othman glanced at Owen. The questions were inconvenient. ‘Not much. I don’t think the Murkasters used this building very often. It was built for the villagers. And it was just a church.’
‘Oh.’ Owen looked disappointed.
Othman began to dress himself.
 
; ‘Are you psychic?’ Owen asked him
‘That’s one word for it, I suppose.’
Owen sat down beside him. ‘I have a friend who’s like that. Daniel Cranton. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’
‘Oh, really?’ Othman’s interested perked up.
‘Yeah, well, Daniel doesn’t know it, and certainly can’t use it, but it’s just a feeling I have. I get feelings like that.. and other things...’
Othman patted his shoulder. ‘Well, we’re all psychic to a degree.’
‘How much do you know about that kind of stuff?’
‘Enough.’ He shivered. A listening presence seemed to have crept up on them. It was similar to the feeling he’d picked up at the house: cautious, wary. ‘I think we should go now.’
Owen glanced around himself nervously. ‘Yeah. I think so too.’
Outside, Othman looked back at the church for a few moments. A wind had come up and the rain was coming down harder.
‘Let’s get back,’ Owen said. ‘You’ll catch your death out in this. Come and have a coffee or something.’
Othman gave him an arch glance. ‘Didn’t think I’d be welcome.’
Owen shrugged. ‘Forget it. I was just... confused about what happened the other night.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No, yeah, maybe.’
They walked back down to the lych-gate. ‘One thing I must tell you,’ Othman said. ‘You and Lily are special people, Owen. Different to everyone else around here. That is one of the reasons why you are lovers. It has nothing to do with incest and you mustn’t feel bad about it.’ He could tell Owen was extremely uncomfortable listening to these frank words, but Othman felt there was no point in skirting the issue.
‘We don’t feel bad about it,’ Owen said mulishly. ‘We do what we like, and I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Neither does Lily.’
‘Of course you don’t. And you shouldn’t. I don’t have a sordid interest in your affairs, Owen. I find you both very attractive, and have become fond of you quickly. I also appreciate your difference, and would like to help you.’