The Parliament of the Dead (2 page)

“Dear God!” Morag looked to heaven, her arms outstretched as she spoke,“He never did anyone any harm, alive or dead.”

“He has no right to be here.”

“He only stayed to look after me; it’s me legs.”

“The Holy Church can look after you.  The dead have no business cavorting with the living.”

“Cavorting!”The woman half-laughed despite her fear,“Dear, dear God!  It’s years since there’s been any cavorting, even when he was alive!”

The priest’s lips tightened.  He released the safety-catch and moved forward until the cold metal of the gun barrel touched the old woman’s forehead.

A sudden movement caught Morag’s eye.  Two burning logs rose up from the fire and flung themselves at the priest.

One of his assistants leapt forward and blocked the logs with his arm.  There was a sickening crunching noise but the man didn’t flinch.  He drew a shotgun from under his cloak and fired in the direction of the hearth.

The fireplace was ripped apart.  Splinters of wood and tiny fragments of china ornaments sprayed in all directions.  To Morag’s surprise the room filled with the sweet smell of incense.

The shotgun cartridges were filled with grains of frankincense and bitter herbs and impregnated with holy water.  They were put together with complicated rituals to ensure they were lethal to spirits, yet they also retained the ability to harm the flesh of the living.

The shot revealed Harold’s ghostly shape for a moment.  He was an elderly man, almost bald, leaning on a walking-stick.  His eyes met those of his wife as the mystical power of the blast took effect and he blew apart like smoke in the wind.

“I love you Morag!”cried a faint voice which sounded as though it was coming from far away.

The four men left.  After the door slammed the only noise was the sobbing of the old woman.  Harold was finally gone.

*   *   *

Once they were outside the house, one of the black clad figures, a stocky man with curly black hair and rich olive skin, cleared his throat. “Father Pious?”he asked in a heavy Italian accent.

The leader grunted.

“Ess many mile to London Town, Yes?”

“More than five hundred, but let us take one step at a time. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’Matthew’s Gospel, chapter six, verse thirty-four.”

The clergymen walked back to their camp where the injured man had his arm bound in two wooden splints.

They checked their weapons, packed up their tents and continued their journey. 

Chapter Three

Crap Floats

Iona’s mother was even more distracted than usual. Tiggy Ward worked for a television company - which Iona thought should be really cool; but making documentaries - which Iona felt was a terrible waste of her mum’s potential.

Currently she was working on a series about the history of the House of Lords.  She had very little time for anything else; when she was not filming in the Chamber of the House she was interviewing lords in a succession of Westminster’s swankiest restaurants.

With Iona suspended from school,

Tiggy had no choice but to take her daughter to work with her.

“Now Iona, listen,”scolded Tiggy fiercely, in the hope that she would not need to later,“this is
really
important.”

“OK,”muttered Iona, shaking her head in irritation and pulling a face to show that of the two of them she was the most fed up being stuck together.

“We are going to meet some really important people.”

Iona sighed deeply. “
OK
, I'll be good.”

“Well,”her mother hesitated for a moment before continuing in a rush,“like I said, these are extremely important people; I can’t tell them you have been suspended from school for desecrating a cathedral.  I’ll tell them you are on work-experience.”

Iona wondered if her mum would even admit to having a daughter.

*   *   *

They met Lord Garton in a small, quaint and ridiculously overpriced tea-shop close to Westminster Abbey.  While the cameras were being unpacked and assembled Tiggy chatted to the Lord.  Iona lurked in the background trying to spike up her hair as high as it would go.

Iona had been following her mum around like a sarcastic shadow, tutting and sighing every time Tiggy had been gushingly polite and complimentary to members of the House of Lords.

“Lord Garton, it is
so
kind of you to agree to give us some time from your busy schedule.”

Iona coughed loudly and her mother thought she heard the word‘
crawler
’hidden in the noise.

If Lord Garton heard it he did not respond.

“I’m afraid we have to meet here,”Lord Garton began in his deep rich voice, too loud for the small establishment -“the Romulian Club, where I usually take lunch, does not allow the fairer sex.”

Iona stared at the Lord in disbelief. “Girls are not allowed?”

Tiggy’s face darkened, horrified that Iona had spoken out of turn.  She looked at the plump, middle-aged aristocrat, his substantial moustache moving as though he was chewing a wasp while he considered Iona with a disapproving eye.

Having thought about his response, Garton chuckled in a condescending manner:“Good Lord no.  It’s a gentlemen’s club for gentle
men
.  Of course we voted on whether to accept ladies...”

Tiggy looked up hopefully; perhaps Lord Garton would be able to assure Iona that he was not the sexist prig he appeared to be.

“I voted
against
of course,”he said with a smug smile,“and  I’m delighted to say
we
won.”

Iona was horrified,“You can’t be serious.  Haven’t you ever heard of equal opportunities?”

“Equal opportunities?” The Lord shook his head. “The cream does not need an equal opportunities policy to rise to the top of the milk.”

“I think you’ll find that crap floats too,”replied Iona imitating his patronising plummy voice.

Tiggy held up her hands apologetically. “I’m so sorry Lord Garton.  She’s on work-experience; she doesn’t know how to behave in front of a man of your stature.”

“You mean a man of his girth,”Iona murmured to herself looking at the floor.

Garton grunted behind his expansive moustache. “In my day she’d be given six of the best with the cane.”

Iona looked puzzled for a moment, then looked at the Lord with a horrified expression.

“Yes
caned!
  There’s nothing wrong with a good thrashing.  Made me the man I am today.”

“It made you a misogynistic-dinosaur-tit-face.”

Garton looked from Iona to her mother and back again. “Never before have I been spoken to in such a way!  Not in all my life!”He shouted, his face reddening with rage.

“Then you obviously need to get out more!” Iona yelled as she stormed out of the shop.

*   *   *

That night, when Iona finally returned home, she had the telling-off of her life.  For the rest of Iona’s suspension her mother left her at home.

They lived in a small flat above a print shop on Fleet Street.  Tiggy asked both the owner of the shop, and their neighbour, the Vicar of St. Dunstan’s Church, to keep a watchful eye on her daughter.

Chapter Four

Ghost Walk

By the end of the first week Iona was struggling with being suspended.  She had no friends (they were all at school), no money (her mother had frozen her allowance), no books she hadn’t read at least twice, and no inspiration for any meaningful activity.

She decided to go for a stroll despite the fact that she knew walking past all the shops when she couldn’t buy anything would be depressing and tedious.  She put on her favourite boots (black), jeans (black), T-shirt (black) and checked that her brown roots were not showing through her dyed hair (black).

Leaving the doorway she found herself in the middle of a group of tourists.  A long thin tour guide with a shock of tangled white hair was pointing out the church next door with enthusiasm.

Iona’s first reaction to all the strangers blocking her way was annoyance.  But there was something infectious about the tour guide’s passion, and when Iona heard what he was saying, she was instantly hooked.

“…Once he slit their throats he flung their bodies into the basement, where he sliced them up.  The best cuts were packed off to Mrs. Lovett’s bakery, where people would queue twenty yards down the street for her
delicious
meat pies.”

The guide leaned forward and licked his lips with theatrical relish.

“And then Mr. Todd dumped the remains in the tombs under St. Dunstan’s Church.  And he would have got away with it, if it hadn’t been for the smell.”

He held his nose as he continued.

“The good people came to Church and couldn’t keep their minds on their prayers for the foul, deathly stench of rotten flesh.”

The tour group moved on.  Iona could see from the leaflets several of the tourists were carrying that this was a‘London Sightseeing Ghost Walk.’ She decided to follow the party, lurking at the back, for the rest of the way.

They visited the back streets of the Inner Temple and heard the story of‘Hanging Judge’Henry Hawkins, whose ghost could be seen briskly striding through the cobbled streets after midnight, wearing his wig and robes and carrying a huge bundle of dusty legal papers.

The group paused outside‘Ye Olde Cock Tavern’to hear about the ghostly appearance of the writer Oliver Goldsmith to a terrified barmaid.

Nearby, Iona discovered, an overworked solicitor haunts the‘Wig and Pen’club; and a Cavalier called George regularly visits‘The George’pub.

The tour ended outside a small establishment called‘The Cheshire Cheese.’ No ghosts were known to haunt this bar, but in the back room they keep a stuffed parrot called‘Polly.’ Polly the Parrot was internationally famous for being able to swear in nine different languages, five of which had been taught her by the legendary highwayman, Dick Turpin.

Iona was impressed.  She had been quite proud of herself for being able to describe some very rude things in French, German, Greek and Russian.  She gained much playground kudos for this linguistic feat.

As the walk finished a group of Japanese tourists gathered around the guide to have their photographs taken with him.  Iona tried to walk off towards the bustle of Fleet Street, but the guide called her back,“Excuse me!  Young lady, wait a moment!”

Unsure of what the man could want with her, Iona waited, pushing a Mars wrapper round the floor with her foot while photos were taken and the guide gave out business cards.

Eventually the guide turned to Iona,“So you are interested in ghosts?”

“I guess,”replied Iona with a shrug.

“Not interested enough to
pay
for my tour however?”

“Sorry,”she mumbled, looking down to her black leather boots, flexing her legs to make ready to run for it if necessary.

For a moment neither of them spoke, but when Iona looked at the guide’s face she saw he was smiling.

He extended a thin pale hand:“Arthur Richards, pleased to make your acquaintance young lady.” His hand was cold and very dry to her touch. “And you are...?”

“Iona.  Iona Ward.”

“Well Iona Ward, you can
owe
me one, but I shall take your interest as a compliment,”he coughed,“although too many compliments like that and I’ll be begging for a living.” His cough rumbled into a laugh and back again.  For a brief moment Iona noticed a peculiar striped line around Arthur’s neck as he bent forward chuckling.  It disappeared under his collar again as he composed himself.

He handed her one of the brochures the tourists had been carrying.

“Um,”Iona snapped her eyes away from Arthur’s neck as he looked into her face,“I was interested in what you said about Dick Turpin.”

“Oh yes?”Arthur’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah, my great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-great-grandfather was a highwayman.  My grandmother tells me about it every time she sees me.”

“Well really, that’s fascinating, do you know anything about him?”

“His name was Tom King.  I think he was supposed to be a friend of Dick Turpin.”

Arthur looked a little awestruck for a moment, but he soon regained his composure. “Yes, I’ve heard of him.  You must come on my next walk.  Yes, come along for the whole kit-and-caboodle next time.”

Iona promised that she would, and ran home wearing the first genuine smile that had crossed her face since being excluded from school.

Chapter Five

Grief at the Graveside

Oh!  Hey, Gibbs, someone just walked over my grave,”the Ghost of Higginswaite House said with a shudder.“When the living say that they simply have
no idea!
”

“You think you've got problems?”retorted his gibbering companion (the ghost of a medieval lute player, known locally as the‘
Mental Minstrel of Mimsgate-upon-Mudd
’but‘Gibbs’to his few friends).  “You've got yourself a nice quiet resting-place in a country churchyard.  My grave was never marked, and they went and built Junction 33 of the M1 motorway on top of it.”

“Well at least that explains the gibbering!”observed the Higginswaite Ghost, shaking his head, which suddenly felt like it was taking a ride on a roller-coaster without the rest of his body.  He had several friends who could actually send their heads on fairground rides while their bodies pursued other interests, however, this was not one of Higginswaite’s tricks.

As a ghost he was used to giving other people creepy feelings, but felt a deep injustice when on the receiving end. “I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight.”

“
I’ve
got a bad feeling most n-nights.”Gibbs added, and let out a particularly violent gibber,“Hga, hga naaa wububub egh!  I think another bus-load of French exchange students just drove across my grave.  What’s going on over your resting-place has to be a picnic by comparison.”

*   *   *

Not far away four priests sat around a tombstone.  They had just dug a deep hole, and were sweating from their labours.