The Secret Prophecy (5 page)

Chapter 12

T
om had somehow managed to retune the radio in their rental car to the BBC, where a newsreader was relaying British government assurances that the country was well placed to meet the threat of Nigerian Death Flu thanks to the impending purchase of a newly developed vaccine that would be used in a mass vaccination program to be introduced over the next few weeks.

“Must make sure you have your shot when we get home,” Tom murmured, glancing at Charlotte, who was in the passenger seat beside him. “You should have one too,” he said over his shoulder to Em. “Get your mum to arrange it.”

Em grunted. Personally, he thought the Nigerian Death Flu business was a load of fuss about nothing, since it didn’t seem to be any more serious than the seasonal flu that hit Britain every winter. But the name frightened people, he supposed, and his mum might well insist he get a shot. He wasn’t about to remind her though. Em hated needles. To change the subject, he asked, “Where are we now?”

“Just south of Avignon,” Tom said. “I considered taking you in to see the famous
pont
, although there’s not much of it left; but I thought if we were going to detour at all, you might prefer to see Saint-Rémy, to judge from our conversation the other evening.”

“Why Saint-Rémy?” Em asked, wondering what conversation Tom was referring to. The previous night, after a mind-numbingly boring day at Tom’s rotten symposium, they’d talked mostly about soccer.

“It’s the town where Nostradamus was born; don’t you remember? The actual house is still there.”

Saint-Rémy-de-Provence proved to be a village rather than a town—and a picturesque one at that. They passed beyond the remnants of an ancient wall before reaching the interior, which somehow managed to look more Italian than French and might just possibly have been Roman. Tom found parking, then led them to a narrow back street overlooked by crumbling, dirty, slumlike houses. “What do you think?” he asked as they stopped beside a green gate.

“What do we think about what, Daddy?”

Tom nodded toward a square building with plaster so cracked that it revealed the brickwork beneath. “The house where Nostradamus was born.”

How did Tom know where to find it? Em said, “Not exactly a palace, is it?”

“Don’t knock it,” Tom told him. “That must have been a reasonable middle-class residence in 1503.They may not have had all our mod cons, but they probably lived well by the standards of their day.” He stared at the house a moment longer, then shrugged his shoulders. “Nostradamus’s own home in Salon is a bit more impressive. As you’ll see.”

Salon-de-Provence proved to be larger than Saint-Rémy, a medieval town surrounded by an outgrowth of comparatively modern buildings. They abandoned the car in favor of feet and walked through an archway in the original city wall to enter the Old Town. In less than half an hour, they were standing outside a tall terraced house with an imposing entrance door.

“This is it,” Tom said. “This is where he lived and wrote his prophecies.”

“It looks new,” Em said, a little disappointed.

Charlotte peered at the plaque beside the door:

DANS CETTE MAISON

VECVT ET MOVRVT

M
ICHEL
N
OSTRADAMUS

ASTROPHILE

MÉDECIN ORDINAIRE DV ROI

AVTEVR DES “ALMANACHS” ET

DES IMMORTELLES “CENTURIES”

MD III MDLXVI

“In this house lived and died Michel Nostradamus,” Charlotte read aloud, translating the wording. “Astrologer, physician ordinary to the King, author of the ‘almanacs’ and the immortal ‘centuries.’ 1503 to . . .” She hesitated, then turned to Em. “What’s LXVI?”

“Sixty something,” Em said. “Sixty-six, I think.”

“1503 to 1566,” Charlotte said triumphantly. She frowned suddenly. “I think they’ve turned it into a museum!”

Nostradamus proved not to be much of a tourist attraction, for apart from themselves, the museum was almost empty of customers. A bored girl behind a small reception desk issued them with tickets that Tom paid for in euros, then surprised them by breaking into excellent English. “You may go anywhere within the house that you wish. These brochures in your native language”—she handed them out with a flourish—“contain a plan and explain a little about each room.”

“Merci,”
Tom said, looking dazed.

For Em, the house was frankly disappointing. It consisted of narrow staircases and sparsely furnished rooms with wooden floors, small doorways, and low ceilings. When they eventually reached the attic, one of the smallest rooms of all, Em started violently at the unexpected appearance of a fierce, black-bearded and black-robed man wielding a quill pen behind a smallish desk. Then he realized that it was a mannequin, presumably meant to represent Nostradamus himself. Tom said soberly, “This is where he made his prophecies. This is where he called up spirits.”

Em blinked. “This is where he called up
what
?”

Tom looked momentarily discomfited. “Apparently that’s how he made his prophecies. He’d come in here with a brass tripod, a small lamp or candle that would have been his only light, a laurel wand, and a bowl of water. He probably had an incense burner as well and maybe some narcotic herbs—he studied herbs, after all. Then he used an ancient Greek ritual to call up a spirit that helped him prophesy.”

“You mean he was . . . like . . . some sort of magician?” Em asked hesitantly.

“I suppose you could call him that. He certainly tried to practice magic to call spirits into his water bowl. It could all have been hallucinations, of course, especially if he was using narcotic herbs.”

Em stared into the empty room imagining the bearded, dark-eyed figure of the prophet as he crouched over his great brass bowl. He could almost hear the mutterings of the approaching spirits as they swirled stealthily from the depths of the water. He could almost see a luminous figure that towered above Nostradamus, then bend nearly double to whisper in his ear.

It was a vision that remained with him, on and off, throughout the remainder of his trip to southern France. He was even thinking about it vaguely as he opened the door of his home, having waved good-bye to Tom and Charlotte on the doorstep.

“Mum!” he called. “I’m back!!” He hefted his suitcase to the foot of the stairs but decided to take it up a little later. He was tired and excited from the trip, still undecided about whether to tell his mother about the man who’d followed him. “Mum,” he called again, “Tom’s coming over later with Charlotte—is that all right? We had a great time. We saw the house where Nostradamus lived and Tom got big applause at his symposium and Charlotte bought a top that cost over sixty quid. Tom paid—she has him wrapped around her little finger. Any chance of a cup of tea? I’m parched. I have a little present for you in my case. All the way from Paris. Mum?”

But it wasn’t his mother who came out of the kitchen. It was his mother’s brother, and he looked serious.

Chapter 13

“H
ello, Uncle Harold,” Em said. “Where’s Mum?” He glanced around vaguely, as if she might be hiding under the stairs.

Harold said, “Come into the kitchen, Em. I’ve something to tell you.”

“What’s happened?” Em asked at once. But Harold only turned and walked back into the kitchen. After a moment, Em followed him.

Harold Beasley looked nothing like Em’s mother. He was fat and colorless and wore round, rimless granny glasses to correct his short sight. But that was only on the outside. Inside his head, Uncle Harold looked heroic. He’d once been a fairly useless policeman, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing to his sister: “Last week we had seven robberies, two murders, and eighteen assaults in the precinct AND SOMEHOW WE HAVE TO STOP THIS!” Now he sold life insurance but retained the urge toward self-dramatization. “Sit down, Em,” he said in something close to a sepulchral tone. “I have something very serious to tell you.”

“What?” Em demanded. “What’s happened?” A feeling of pure dread was crawling up his spine, made all the more unpleasant for having nothing to focus on. Something had happened to his mum—it had to be that. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she’d fallen, broken a bone of something. “Is it Mum?” Em added.

But Uncle Harold insisted on his little games. He gave Em a sorrowful, pitying look. “I think it best you sit down,” he said again.

You could sometimes stop Uncle Harold’s nonsense if you tried hard enough, but it was far quicker just to give in. Em sat down on a kitchen chair, suppressed the urge to ask questions, and looked at him expectantly.

“Your mother is in the hospital,” Uncle Harold said.

She’d fallen down. Em was certain of it. She’d had one drink too many and fallen down.

“They took her into Saint Brendan’s while you were in France,” Harold said.

Their local hospital was the Costa General. Em had never heard of Saint Brendan’s.

“They sectioned her,” Uncle Harold said. He hesitated, then added guiltily, “There was nothing I could do about it. I did try.”

Sectioned? Some sort of operation? They were opening up sections of his mother? Sounded horrible, but if it was for her own good, why would Uncle Harold try to stop—?

The memory fell on him like some terrible cascade.
Sectioned
wasn’t any kind of surgery. It was the name for the legal procedure that committed you to a lunatic asylum! The person who made a sectioning application had to be your nearest relative—he was sure of that. But with Dad gone, Mum’s nearest relative was Em himself, and he certainly hadn’t made an application. Unless . . .

Harold was his mother’s brother. He was legally Mum’s closest relative while Em was underage. “You sectioned her?” Em gasped.

Harold dropped his posturing and waved one hand irritably. “No, of course not. Why would I section her? I told you; I tried everything I could to stop it.”

“Who sectioned her? It has to be a relative.”

“No it doesn’t,” Harold said. “It was a social worker.”

“A
social worker
?” Em exploded. Social workers called on people in council houses who were mistreating their children. Em had never even
seen
a social worker. Social workers simply didn’t have any business with people like his mother and himself. “What social worker?”

Harold pulled a chair across and sat down. Now that he’d stopped puffing himself up, he looked defeated. “A Mrs. Harlingford,” he said.

Em cut him off. “What had she got to do with Mum, this Mrs. Harlingford?”

Harold shook his head. “I don’t know. She just turned up at the university, demanding to be let into the apartment. Caroline was out somewhere at the time shopping, I think, and you were away in France, so the provost sent for me. When I got here they were arguing on the doorstep; but your mum came back from shopping a few minutes afterward, and the Harlingford woman served her with a commitment order under the Mental Health Act.”

“They can’t do that!” Em protested. “I mean, a social worker can’t just walk up to you and have you committed just like that. You have to get a medical examination or something.”

“She had two forms signed by doctors.”

Em just stared at him. This was unbelievable. Eventually he asked angrily, “What doctors? Who were they?”

“One was Alex Hollis. I don’t know the other one, but there was the stamp of some clinic; I can’t remember the name.”

“Dr. Hollis?” Em almost felt like yelling. “That’s our own GP. Dad and he went golfing sometimes.” Dr. Hollis’s surgery was only about twenty minutes from the university. He was the GP to most of the faculty. Why would he do a thing like this?

Harold looked down at his feet. “I know; I didn’t understand it either. I tried to see him for an explanation, but there was a different doctor at the office, and the secretary said Dr. Hollis had to leave the country for a few days.”

“What happened next?” Em asked. “After the Harlingford person served the papers?”

“Well, Caroline protested, of course, and so did I; but Harlingford stoned it: I threatened to call our lawyer, but she just said to go ahead. Meanwhile, she had to put your mother in the hospital. Then she called these two goons she had with her in the car—bouncer types: all dark glasses and bulging muscles—and said she had to go to the hospital right away. Harlingford didn’t want to give me the name of the hospital, but I insisted; and finally she said it was Saint Brendan’s.”

“Where is that?” Em interrupted.

“Other side of town. Highgrove.”

“When did this happen?”

“Three days ago.”

“Why didn’t you let me know?” Em demanded.

“Your mobile must have been out,” Harold said. “Tom’s too. Somebody told me the French network’s pretty shaky.” He glanced away.

It was a lie. Em knew it at once. Harold was useless in a crisis. Carefully, he said, “How is Mum? You’ve visited her, haven’t you?”

Harold shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me.”

“Who wouldn’t let you?”

“The hospital. They said no visitors for four days. They were doing an initial evaluation or something. I sent her a suitcase of clothes, though, and I phoned every day to see how she was.”

Em glared at him. “So how was she?”

“Fine. At least they told me she was fine. They wouldn’t let me talk to her.”

“I don’t understand this!” Em protested. “Why would some social worker we’ve never seen want to section Mum?” Behind the question other questions were lining up. Why did their family doctor sign the section papers? And who was the second doctor involved whom Uncle Harold had never heard of?

Harold shook his head again. “Didn’t have any idea. All our lawyer could say was that she was acting within the law. He did have the idea that she might not be a bona fide social worker; but when he checked, she was kosher. Working for some government department, too, quite high up.”

“How long are they going to keep her there?”

“I don’t know,” Harold said, “but Mr. Greeve said that under Section Two of the Mental Health Act, you can be detained for twenty-eight days.”

“
Twenty-eight?
That’s nearly a month!”

“They can extend that to six months if they make another application; and they can make further applications after that, more or less indefinitely.”

Em continued to stare at him, his mind working overtime. Eventually he said, “This all happened Tuesday? Three days ago? So this is the fourth day?” Harold nodded without saying anything and managed somehow to look vaguely guilty. “So we could visit her today?” Em suggested.

“Bit late in the day now. Besides, I have stuff to do . . .” Uncle Harold protested.

“It’s all right, Uncle Harold. I’ll go to see her on my own,” Em said carefully. He had a sudden, surprising surge of sympathy for his uncle. The man was weak, silly, and disorganized; but that was probably just the way he’d been born. Shouting at him now wouldn’t help. Em needed the exact address of the hospital, a quick shower, and a change of clothes, then he could go see his mother and find out properly what was going on. He was fairly sure he’d extracted as much information from his uncle as he was likely to get.

“There’s something else,” Harold said.

Em sat down again and waited.

“The house was broken into again,” Harold said.