The Sin Eater (37 page)

‘Nor dare you. The police will know you were the one who caused the escape.'

‘But no one at Holly Lodge will know that yet,' said Declan. ‘So you're the one who'll wait here until I come back.'

‘All right,' said Colm. ‘If you see anything of Romilly's while you're there, bring that as well, would you? I think she had some photos from Kilglenn.'

‘For pity's sake, I can't go rummaging through all the rooms—'

‘I suppose not. But there's one very important thing—'

‘Yes?'

‘See if you can find the Title Deeds to the house,' said Colm. ‘For I'm damned if I'm leaving without getting something out of this.'

It was vital not to feel angry or annoyed with Colm. Declan, threading his way through the streets, watchful for police, reminded himself that the request to find the deeds to Holly Lodge was reasonable – even sensible. They had hardly any money between them, and they would be fugitives for some time to come. To own a house would be a fine thing. But how could it possibly profit them? They would not dare live in it, nor would they dare sell it or rent it out. And were you allowed to profit from a crime you had committed? Declan had no knowledge of the law, but he thought it was a reasonable assumption that you were not.

Still, if he could get the Title Deeds he would do so, although he would not endanger either himself or Colm in the process.

The chess figure was another matter entirely.

Thinking furiously, Declan began to make his way across London.

In the end he simply walked openly into Holly Lodge. If anyone appeared – police or any of the girls – he would say he was collecting a couple of items of clothing he had left behind and he would be ignorant of Colm's escape.

But no one did appear. Declan heard faint sounds of crockery from the kitchens, but he was able to go up to the room he and Colm had shared. Moving quickly, listening for footsteps on the stairs, he scooped up the few odds and ends that were there. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the bedside drawer and took out the chess piece, dropping it into his pocket. It felt heavy, as if it was dragging down the cloth of his coat.

There did not seem to be anything in the room that might have been Romilly's though, and Declan went back down the stairs. No one seemed to be around, although he could still hear someone moving around the scullery. Dare he go into Flossie's part of the house? Surely the police would have taken away all her papers and documents anyway? But Colm had been insistent, and Declan, remembering the way Colm's eyes could blaze with anger, did not feel like returning without having at least tried to find the Title Deeds. His heart thudding, he went through to the little sitting room where Flossie had died.

Everything was neat and tidy; furniture stacked to one side, a tea chest standing in the centre, containing what looked like a miscellany of Flossie's possessions. Declan made a cursory search of this, but there was nothing except ordinary household goods, a few sketches of local scenes, some china and glass ornaments. Where would papers be kept? There was a small bureau-cum-desk in one corner; it was almost certainly locked, but it was worth trying.

It was locked, but the lock was a flimsy one and it snapped fairly easily. Feeling like a housebreaker, Declan went swiftly through the papers inside it. There were letters, bills, odd receipts from various local merchants. He opened the small drawers at the back of the desk.

The Deeds were there. Several pages of thick, expensive-looking paper, tied with narrow green tape, bearing the legend:
Holly Lodge, freehold messuage and lands in the district of Highbury, County of London.

Declan thrust the papers into the inside of his jacket and almost ran from the house.

‘So that's how you did it,' said Benedict softly, in the ruins of Colm's cottage, with the ocean-scented air blowing all round him.

We did. And it took a long and weary time to get back up to Liverpool
.

‘But you came back here?'

We did. And for a time we thought we were safe. We thought we could hide out, and I'd take the chess figure back to the watchtower
.

‘To be with the embers of the others,' said Benedict, softly.

Yes. I wish I could explain to you about its force – about how it poured itself into me and made me feel such hatred and such malevolence
.

‘I understand a little,' said Benedict, remembering parts of Fergal McMahon's memoirs.

Do you? But you can't begin to imagine how weary these years have been. The poets write about beckoning ghosts in moonlight shades, and they wax lyrical about wizard oaks and Homer's thin airy shoals of visionary ghosts. Oh yes, Benedict, I have the learning and I have the classics at my beck and I can quote the great minds with the best, for the monks wouldn't have sent their pupils out into the world deformed and unfinished before their time . . . But the moonlight shades are lonely and desolate and as for wizard oaks, I wouldn't have them as a gift, even if I knew what they were
.

Benedict said, ‘Why did you kill my parents? And my grandfather, who was Declan's son after all.'

But isn't every man somebody's son? And I didn't mean to kill them. They were hell-bent on destroying the chess figure. They had a few shreds of its story, handed down by Declan; they knew it was something to be feared. But I knew that if it was destroyed I'd lose my only chance of reaching one of Declan's descendants, and ridding myself of the sins. It had to be one of Declan's family, because
—

‘Because he was the one who set the ritual working,' said Benedict, softly.

So you understand that, do you? When I realized your father intended to destroy the figure I tried to stop him. They were taking it to the old St Stephen's cemetery to bury it or burn it – he and your grandfather had pieced together some of the links to the past, mostly from half-memories Declan had left them. They hadn't got it quite right, but they knew enough to realize it was the source of the house's strangeness – that it was connected to the person they sometimes saw looking out of the mirrors. I had to prevent them destroying it, but I didn't intend them to die. And then afterwards there was only you, Benedict
.

‘The figure in the mirror,' said Benedict, half to himself. ‘So my father did see you.'

Oh yes. But all those years ago when your great-grandfather got me out of Newgate Gaol, I wanted to destroy the chess piece – I knew it had made me a murderer. Declan didn't want to come back here – he said we'd be seen and recognized. But I persuaded him. I could always persuade him to do what I wanted. I said even if we were seen, we'd be the prodigal sons returning
.

But once we reached this cottage, it all went dreadfully wrong and the nightmare began
. . .

For the first few hours of their return, Declan and Colm stayed in the shack, waiting for nightfall.

‘Then we'll go up to the watchtower, and we'll cast this devil-inspired figure into the rubble,' said Colm. ‘It can reunite itself with the others, and for all I care they can spend the next thousand years raising Satan's armies to invade the world.'

‘I hate being here and not seeing my family,' said Declan.

‘When we make our fortunes in America we'll come back and bestow largesse everywhere. What is largesse, by the way?'

‘No idea, but we'll bestow it anyway.'

Darkness had not completely fallen when they set off for the watchtower. A faint glimmer came from the ocean, and the moon was rising, casting a cool silvery light.

There was a dreamlike quality to the cliff path as they climbed it, and they both remembered again the old tales of the Sidhe who could lure men to their deaths with their chill fatal singing.

The watchtower reared up above them as they came round the last curve of the path, stark and bleak against the night sky, and they both stopped and stared up at it.

‘Just think,' said Declan softly, ‘how we used to make up stories about it – how it was a giant's castle with a captive princess inside, or how it had been built from the magic-soaked stones of the ancient Irish Court of Tara.'

‘And now,' said Colm softly, ‘it's a burned-out wreck, with the bones of a renegade priest in the rubble.' He began to walk up the last few yards, then stopped. ‘Can you hear that?'

‘I hear nothing. And if you're starting to think this place is haunted, or the Sidhe are calling . . .' Then Declan heard it as well, and the sounds were not ghosts and they were certainly not the Sidhe.

The sounds were human. Several voices, all shouting, ‘Murderer.'

They turned and saw, on the path below them, torch lights flaring through the dusk. At least twenty people – most of them men, but some women – were coming towards them.

‘That's half the village of Kilglenn!' said Colm, staring at the people in fear. ‘And they're coming for me.'

‘But we needn't be afraid,' said Declan. ‘Those are people we know – we grew up among them. My father isn't there, though,' he said, scanning the faces. ‘Neither is Fintan.'

‘Never mind who's not there, what do we do?'

Declan looked wildly about him, then said, ‘We'll go inside the tower. If we can barricade the door against them, they might calm down after a while. Or we might be able to reason with them. Because these are people we've known since childhood!'

They tumbled across the remaining few feet to the tower and half fell against the door, gasping with relief when the handle turned and the door opened. They slammed it against the torchlit procession, and leaned back against the blackened oak, trying to regain their breath.

Even after the fire, the stone walls were so thick that the sounds of the approaching villagers was shut off, but it was so dark they could barely see anything.

‘We'll have to find something to barricade the door,' said Colm.

‘There's nothing. Everything's burned to cinders.'

‘No, wait, there's a few bits of furniture – there's a chest over there, I think. Stay here – keep the door shut while I drag it over.'

Declan stayed where he was, holding the door's iron latch in place. He could hear Colm dragging the chest from the wall, but he could not see him. He pressed his ear to the door's surface, listening for sounds that the villagers had reached the top of the cliff path. Perhaps they were outside the door now. Or were they trying to find another way in?
Was
there another way in?

Here was Colm now. He must have got the chest across the room while Declan was listening for the villagers' approach. He had come to stand next to Declan – he was actually standing very close. Declan half turned his head and it was then that Colm reached down and took hold of Declan's hand. This was odd; it was not in the least like Colm. And Colm's hand felt wrong – it was too small, almost shrunken, and the fingers were curling round Declan's with a terrible intimacy . . .

In a voice that shook, Declan said, ‘Colm? Where are you?'

‘Over by the old fireplace, trying to get this press out from the wall. Why?'

Declan said, ‘Something's standing next to me. And it's grasping my hand.' He recoiled, snatching his hand free and nursing it as if it had been bitten. Colm's voice, still on the other side of the tower said, ‘Declan? What's wrong?'

‘There's something in here with us,' said Declan, and as he spoke, the darkness slithered, and shadows reared up on the walls – grotesque shadows that might easily be figures on prancing horses, figures wielding spears, figures that wore crowns and mitres . . . There was the glint of crimson – like slanted eyes peering down from the walls, and Declan shrank back, flinging up a hand in instinctive defence. A face came swooping out of the darkness and peered down at him – a dreadful carved face, the red eyes slitted and malevolent, the lips stretched in a hungry smile.

At the top of his voice, he yelled, ‘Get thee gone from me, Satan!' and there was a dry chuckle, like ancient, skinless bones being rubbed together.

Then the door burst open and the Kilglenn villagers erupted into the tower. Cold moonlight, eerily mingled with leaping torch flames, came jaggedly through the darkness. The shadows with their glinting red eyes vanished, and the villagers seized Colm and half-carried, half-dragged him out on to the cliff side.

But Declan saw that the crimson light shone from the eyes of the men and women he had known since he was born.

There was nothing either Declan or Colm could do.

The villagers thrust the torches in the ground, and held Colm down.

‘Murderer,' they chanted. ‘Mesmer Murderer. We know who you are.'

‘Murderers have to be branded,' cried several more. ‘The mark of Cain. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be now.'

‘Brand the murderer, brand him.'

‘Set the mark upon him.'

Branding irons
, thought Declan, horror engulfing him.
They've brought branding irons, and they're heating them in the torch flames. The newspaper stories about the Mesmer Murderer with Colm's photographs must have reached them – they know what he did. And they're going to burn him. I've got to stop them
, he thought, but as he started forward, two more of the men grabbed him and held him back.

‘See what we do to murderers,' said one of them.

‘We'll do it to you as well, if you try to stop us,' said another.

Declan said, ‘You can't do this. Please. You're not sane – you're being used – can't you tell that! Can't you feel it?' He searched frantically for words. What had Colm said it felt like? ‘Something's slid beneath your skin,' cried Declan. ‘It's clawed its way along your hands and fingers and into your brain . . . Can't you feel that it has?'