Delirium (London Psychic) (15 page)

The dim light in the room caressed the bodies of those who moved to the
tanda
, the grace of couples who clasped each other, some for one dance only and others for a lifetime. Jamie found divinity in the movement of human form as the
bandoneón
told of heartbreak and loss, the end of what was once perfect, but only for a heartbeat. Tango sublimated the dark soul through a repetitious beat, a singing in the blood that compelled the body to dance as if it no longer belonged to the brain. The noise in Jamie's head only subsided here, in the arms of a partner who cared only how their bodies moved together in the moment.

She caught Sebastian's eye across the room, her sometime dancing partner sensing her need. Between songs, he came to her and she stepped into his close embrace, no words necessary between them, only the challenge and acceptance of eye contact. There should be smoke here, Jamie thought, its haze casting a pall on the crowd who danced together as if the end of the world would come with the sun tomorrow. Tonight, the dancers would live as if for the final time, like the story of the rose and the nightingale, whose song was sweetest as the thorn pierced its dying breast.
 

Limbs were heavy until the music picked up, and the dance an automatic response to the call of the
milonga
. A primal beat, a need that must be fulfilled, an unbidden compulsion. The sound of the violin filled the room, strains of music that turned the mind from earthly pain into heavenly suffering. Surely the angels dance tango alongside pitiful humanity, and in doing so, transform their grief to something holy.
 

In the thrill of the dance, Jamie wrapped her leg around Sebastian's muscular one, her
ocho
a perfection of touch and release, a sensual play on the level of desire. She felt the twitch of something deep within her, a need to be touched, a need to be taken. A glimmer of it had surfaced when she had seen Blake this morning and now she recognized its significance. It was a flicker of life, when the body became music, a vessel for something beautiful that drove out the darkness within.

Tango chose me
. The words came to Jamie unbidden. Tango threw its lovers together, letting them burn the flame for a pinch in time and then allowing them to slip away, burned and spent. The time in the dance was the only thing that mattered, and Jamie was already burned. Her thoughts returned to the morgue, deep underground, populated by dead babies, the remains of grotesque experimentation. That night in the Hellfire Caves, she had burned a part of herself away as Polly's body went to the god of flame in the caves. She still woke in the night with the taste of smoke in her mouth, but here she could let it all go. The color of tango was holy saffron that draped the pyres of the dead, of brilliant flame that burned the body until it was gone and darkest midnight blue, of the sky after the soul has returned to the stars.
 

Jamie felt Sebastian's arm around her waist and her body slid onto his, slid around it, flowing as she let herself go into the music, her
ocho
perfection. The tango connection was fleeting, the full length of the body during the dance and then the release. When the connection was broken, both must walk away, for what is perfect within the dance could only be something less if taken any further. Jamie held to this truth as the music came to an end. She walked away without looking back as Sebastian moved on to his next partner, a part of her left in the echo of his embrace.

The Canon Chancellor, Reverend Dr Martin Gillingham, began the slow walk around the cathedral, his ritual before leaving late each night. In the bustle of the busy daily life of St Paul's, it was too easy to forget why they all labored here.
This is the house of God, and here shall He be glorified
, Martin thought, looking up into the vast vaulted ceiling above him.
 

Of course, there were days when his faith wavered, as for any man, but today Martin felt a welling of the spirit, a divine refreshment that washed over him. He surveyed the holy domain, checking the corners behind the monuments, making sure the cathedral would be ready for another day.
 

"Thank you, Lord," he whispered, a smile on his face at how fortunate he was to work here, at the heart of Christian faith in London. He always walked this final round after most had gone home, and in the peace and quiet he could reconcile his mission with the fact that no one waited for him at his meager flat. His whole life was here, and perhaps his shade would walk this round after death, an imprint of faithful devotion. To die as a martyr for God was indeed a glorious way to enter Heaven triumphant, but Martin was content with a quiet life of service and solitude.
 

He passed one of the cathedral's most beloved paintings, William Holman Hunt's
The Light of the World
. A cloaked Jesus stood in a verdant wood at night, surrounded by an abundance of branches, leaves and fruit. His face was peaceful and his eyes stared out of the canvas, inviting the watcher into his world. In his left hand, Jesus held a lantern which cast the warmth of candlelight onto his face and clothes, highlighting the ruddy colors. In a cathedral that valued all faiths, the lantern reflected its diversity with cutouts in the shape of the Star of David for Judaism and a crescent moon for Islam. Martin loved the painting, seeing in it the invitation of Jesus to join him on the Christian journey for another day.
 

He walked down the stone stairs to the crypt, looking up at the three death's-head skulls that marked the entrance.
For dust you are, and to dust you will return
, he thought and sighed.
Every day takes us closer to the grave and every day we must live for the glory of God.
At the bottom of the stairs, Martin turned right towards the tomb of Lord Horatio Nelson, walking across the intricate mosaic of anchors, sea monsters and scalloped patterns. A huge black marble tomb dominated the chamber, topped by Nelson's Viscount coronet. The sarcophagus had originally been made for Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chancellor during the reign of Henry VIII, but when he had fallen from favor, it had been kept for someone more worthy. Nelson was surely deserving of such high honor, Martin thought, running his finger gently along the dark stone, yet the military man would likely have scorned the marble as too grand for a soldier. Martin was glad that underneath the monument, Nelson's earthly remains lay in a coffin made from the timber of one of the French ships he had defeated in battle.
 

Some thought that the obsession with honoring war was too dominant at St Paul's, but Martin understood that England could not stand without the courage of those who gave their lives in combat. This church would be nothing without military might, and Nelson's naval prowess was just one facet of glorifying God. After all, the Bible was filled with divine vengeance against those who would oppress, and this was a fitting memorial to one who brought victory for the glory of God and country.
 

A sharp clang sounded through the crypt, and Martin started, his hand grasping the smooth marble of the tomb. He stood still for a moment, listening, but there was no further noise. Perhaps it was one of the cleaners or security staff? The cathedral was never truly empty, but he knew the customary route of the support team and usually avoided them, moving into the spaces they vacated. After years of routine, the noise was unusual, and Martin felt a bristling under his skin, a rightful devotion for his church. Nothing must be out of place in the Lord's house.
 

He walked through the arches towards the Chapel of St Faith. It had once been a parish church attached to the old cathedral, and was now the official Chapel of the Order of the British Empire, where those awarded an OBE could be married or baptized. Martin's footsteps were soft on the gigantic flagstones, engraved in memory of those who had fought and died for Great Britain, the sleeping dead. The lamps were still glowing, surrounded by flames etched in metal, and the light caught the memorial of Florence Nightingale as he passed. Some had protested the inclusion of women in this chapel of war memory, but Martin found the nurse's calm face a blessing as she leaned over a dying man to give him water.
 

The noise came again.
 

Now that he was closer, Martin could tell that it came from the side chapel where the Holy Sacrament was kept. It was a sacred place, locked up tight, as no one was allowed there after the Host had been blessed in readiness for the service. Martin's heart beat faster. There was definitely something wrong here. This was not routine; this was not as it should be. He crept forward slowly. It was probably nothing, surely a mistake, but he had to be sure.
 

The wooden door to the side chapel was open a crack, and Martin peered through the space. He saw a man bent over the Communion wine, a hooded top obscuring his face. He seemed to be injecting something into one of the bottles. Martin frowned and pushed open the door, his righteous anger and concern overcoming any fear.
 

"What are you doing?" he said, stepping into the chapel. "This is a sacred place. Get away from those bottles."
 

The man slowly put down the syringe and held his hands up as he turned around, his face still in shadow. He said nothing, just stared, his head on one side as if considering the situation.
 

"It's OK," Martin said, taking another step towards the man, thinking of the security team. Their rounds down here weren't for another twenty minutes. "Let's go upstairs and I'm sure we can sort all this out." He held out open palms, a gesture of acceptance and welcome he had perfected after years of greeting parishioners.

The man moved suddenly, grabbing one of the Communion wine bottles by the neck and using it as a club. Before Martin truly saw it, the blow exploded on his jawbone. He reeled back, clutching his face, momentarily stunned. He hadn't been hit since he was a boy. Through the pain was a strange kind of relief that his physical body could still feel. But then the man raised the bottle again.
 

Martin stumbled backwards into the crypt, calling for help even as he knew that the thick walls would shield his cries from those above. The man came after him, arm raised, the bottle glinting in the light.
 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "but this must be done. You shouldn't have come down here, but now you will serve as another example."

Martin couldn't keep his eyes from the weapon. In his haste to escape, he tripped over one of the flagstones, falling to the floor. The harsh stone stung his hands, as the words of the dead rubbed at his flesh.
 

"Please," he begged, his voice slurred. "I can get you whatever you need. It doesn't have to be this way."

The man stepped over to him and Martin raised his arms to shield his head. Another blunt blow smashed into his forearm and he moaned, an animal sound that barely registered as human. Scrambling now, he dragged himself towards the altar under the watchful eyes of the famous artists and scientists carved into the wall of memorial plaques.
 

Martin felt another blow to the back of his head and the world exploded, pain mingling with warmth and then a tingling sensation in his limbs as he fell forward.
Oh, my Lord
, Martin prayed in desperation,
let me live. I'm not ready to die. Take this cup from me.
He felt a sob rise in his chest as he gasped for breath, forcing himself to turn over and face his tormentor. The man was pulling something out of his backpack now, a silver spike and a hammer. Martin's stomach wrenched at the thought of what he might do with it. He reached his arms out to the memorials around him, Turner, Millais and William Blake, luminaries of British culture. Their stone eyes looked down upon his suffering as the man advanced. As Martin's vision began to blur, he thought he heard weeping and the rush of angel wings.
 

The sun was barely up and Jamie gulped at her large black coffee, trying to shake off the heaviness from lack of sleep after her night at tango. Blake hadn't called back and her texts had gone unanswered, so this morning she had used the police databases to get through to his mother at the family home. The distraught woman had told her of the death of Blake's father, and Jamie had vivid thoughts of Blake drinking in some dive bar, escaping into oblivion to forget his pain. She had seen him in that state before, and remembered how she had almost crept into bed with him one night. After months of relying on his upbeat support, she was torn by guilt that she hadn't been there for him in his grief. She would have to trust that he would come to her when he was ready.
 

As rays of early morning sun shone on the golden dome of St Paul's, Jamie felt a rush of patriotism, a moment of pleasure and pride at working in the greatest city on Earth. There had been a place of Christian worship at this site since 604 AD, but the iconic dome had been built by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of London had gutted the church in the seventeenth century. The pride of the capital during the Blitz, the dome had not been bombed, but emerged from the smoke, still standing even as the rest of the city burned. Looking up at the magnificent cupola, Jamie wondered whether it pleased God or man more. Certainly the towering grandeur directed all eyes to the sky, but what then? Jamie felt cool rain spotting her upturned face. Then there was only emptiness, a vaulted Heaven with a God who let children die in pain. Jamie shook her head – it was time to focus on work.

Missinghall spoke with the officer on the door and they entered the cathedral, footsteps echoing in the enormous space, usually filled with tourists but now empty as the crime scene was processed in the crypt. The nave was paved with black and white marble, a chessboard representing the struggle of good and evil. Jamie remembered seeing the same motif draped over Hindu gods in Bali, back before her 'real' life had started, before Polly and the police.