Num8ers (23 page)

“It’s all right. Go on.”

I pulled on a big metal handle and opened the inside door. I stepped through, expecting more gloom, but the church itself
was flooded with light. I was in the tallest space: columns of stone reaching up and up to the ceiling, which seemed to be propped up with huge stone fans. Lower down, the windows were made of colored glass, but up high they were clear, the sky beyond now a brilliant blue. I took my bag off and sat down on a wooden bench. It dug into my back. Behind me, I could hear the bolts on the main door being slid back. Any minute now, those guys would burst through. I didn’t want to see it happen. I closed my eyes again and waited. There was the sound of voices, but I couldn’t catch all the words. The door banged back into place, the bolt went across again. Then footsteps, and the inner door opening.

“They’ll wait. They’re not happy, but they’ll wait. I said you’d claimed sanctuary in the Lord’s house and that they could not trespass here. A white lie,” he said, with a little self-conscious laugh, “made with the best of intentions.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him blankly. It took him a while to twig that I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it? Sanctuary? A place of safety,” he explained. He was younger than I had thought when I first saw him. Late twenties, maybe. Thin, with wavy brown hair crinkling over from a side part, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down, and pale, pale eyes.

“Yes,” I murmured, “somewhere safe.”

He frowned. “Do you mind me asking why the police are chasing you? I mean, you don’t have to say, not if you don’t want to.”

“They think I’ve done something bad, but I haven’t.”

“Something serious?”

“They think I blew up the London Eye.”

The frown deepened.

“Oh. I see.” He swallowed and the Adam’s apple went into overdrive. “You’re the one, the girl from London that they’re all looking for. That is serious. You really need to talk to them,” he said gently, “to clear it up.”

“Yeah, but they’re not going to listen to me, are they? They just want someone to frame, guilty as charged, case closed. You seen them, they think I done it, but I never did. I never…” My voice rose, echoing up and through the space.

“They certainly want to talk to you, but not as a suspect, as a witness.”

“They’re going to frame me, and they’ve taken my friend, and…”

“OK, OK. Look, the rector — my boss,” he added quickly, “will be here soon for Matins. I’ll discuss it with him. I need to get the church ready. Do you mind waiting here while I get on? Or you could come ’round with me. I don’t mind.”

The back of the chair was boring into my back. I didn’t want to sit there for any longer than I had to, so I got up and followed him as he bustled about the place, switching on lights, unlocking doors, and lighting candles.

“I’m Simon, by the way.” He half turned and offered me his hand. I took it in mine, and we shook awkwardly. His hand
was warm, delicate, and surprisingly soft for such a thin man. “And you are…?”

“Um, Jem. I’m Jem.”

“Jem. Nice to meet you.”

Funny thing to say — suppose it was the way he was brought up, manners and everything. I didn’t know what you were meant to say back, so I didn’t say anything.

“Your hand’s very cold. Been sleeping on the streets?”

“Yeah.” We’d got to an area at the front of the church on the right-hand side, separated from the rest by a sort of wooden screen.

“If you sit in the chapel here, there are some warm air vents underneath the benches. Help you thaw out. I’ll carry on ’round, but I’ll be back in a minute, Jem.”

I sat where he’d shown me, on a cushioned ledge at the edge of the room. At one end was a table, with a gold cross on it. In the middle was a small black pillar with a candle on the top. There was writing ’round the edge. I got up to have a look:
D
ONA
N
OBIS
P
ACEM.
No idea what that was all about. Why write something in a language like that, something only posh people understand? It’s like telling the rest of us to sod off, isn’t it? I read the words to myself, sounding out their strangeness.

I started as I realized someone was standing in the chapel entrance.

“It’s only me,” Simon said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on praying.”

“Not praying,” I said. “I was just…reading it.”

He smiled. “Of course. They’re lovely words, powerful.” I didn’t have time to ask him what they meant as the sharp sound of a door opening echoed down the church. I flashed a worried look at Simon.

“Don’t worry, that’ll be the rector. Wait here.”

He disappeared back into the church. I stood up and went over to the wooden screen and looked through one of the gaps in the carving. A man had come in through a side door, a small man, but solid-looking, balding and with glasses — more like a bank manager than a priest. He was looking left and right, his eyes sweeping around like searchlights.

Simon trotted up to him, and I listened as the man boomed, “What in the name of the Lord is going on here, Simon? There are armed police outside the abbey. The whole place is surrounded.”

Simon held up his hands, like he was fending off the force of the man’s voice.

“She’s a child, Rector. She came to us for help, sanctuary.”

“I was frisked, Simon. Frisked! Before they’d let me into my own church.”

“Oh…I see.”

“Well, you can stop smirking. This is serious. We must stop this right now. We must hand over the girl. Where is she?”

I shrank back farther into the corner of the chapel.

“She’s in the chapel, but” — immediately, the sound of footsteps coming toward me — “but you can’t just throw her out. She’s a child.”

“She may also be a mass murderer, Simon. And I can do exactly what I like in my church. I am the rector, after all.” They were very close now.

“It’s God’s church.”

The footsteps stopped. Their echoes faded away into the vaulted roof, and there was silence.

“I beg your pardon?”

I knew that tone.
That’s it,
I thought. Simon was in real trouble now, and so was I.

“I mean, that is to say, this is the House of God. Of course, we look after it, but really it isn’t ours. I mean, we’re the guardians, but…” His stumbling words trailed off.

“And your point is?”

“Surely…surely, we must search our hearts and do what Jesus would do.”

How lame was that?
I thought.
I’m done for.
But I wasn’t, because Simon had found the perfect line, had said the one thing that could save me.

“What would Jesus do?” the rector said slowly. “What would He do? Where is she?” His tone was gentler now.

“I’m here,” I said, stepping out from behind the screen.

He looked at me, and I saw his future: forty years or more, the comfort of growing old, respected, a somebody. I don’t
know what he saw when he looked at me; his face gave nothing away, but after a bit he said, “Come, let us pray together, then.” He walked to the front of the chapel and knelt down.

“I’m sorry, I—” I started to say, but Simon held his finger up to his lips and shook his head, then he shepherded me beside him and we knelt down, too.

The rector launched into a prayer, a string of stuff I didn’t understand, like he was talking to someone — asking them stuff — but of course there was nobody else there, just us three. And then he was quiet. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. I held my hands in front of me, palms together, feeling ridiculous. I didn’t know whether to have my eyes open or shut, and I shot a sneaky glance along the row to see what the other two were doing. They were kneeling like two angels on a Christmas card, eyes firmly closed, in a world of their own. My knees were getting sore, especially the one I’d twisted getting over the fence. I shifted about to try and get more comfortable, and then sat down properly, wondering how long it would be until I knew my fate.

Hours later — or was it minutes? — and without saying anything to each other, they both opened their eyes at the same time and stood up. I got to my feet, too. The rector stepped toward me and took both my hands in his.

“You’re welcome in God’s House, child. You have sought sanctuary with us, and you will find it here. For the time being.” Behind him, Simon was beaming. “This isn’t going
to be easy, for any of us. Before we go on, I need you to answer me honestly. Do you have anything with you, any weapons?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“No guns or knives? Explosives?” he said, eyeing my backpack, which was lying on the floor.

“No.”

“Do you mind if I, or Simon here, have a look?”

I did mind, as it happened. It wasn’t really my stuff, it was Britney’s, and it was all I had in the world, but I wasn’t really in a position to argue. I undid my bag there and then and tipped it out, the contents spilling onto the tiled floor: food, bottles of water, my cigarettes, some spare undies from Britney.

“We don’t allow smoking in here. I’m sure you understand that.”

I shrugged.

“And your pockets? Would you mind turning out your pockets?”

I dug my hands into the pockets of my coat and my jeans and added old tissues, my lighter, the last bit of change to the pile on the floor. Fifteen years old, and that was everything I had in the world.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to search you.” I shot him a warning look.
Now we’re getting to it,
I thought.
Any excuse for him to stick his fingers where I don’t want him to. Dirty old man.
If they started
anything, I was ready to defend myself. Neither of them looked like much of a threat to me.

“Simon,” the rector said, “will you do the honors?”

Simon looked more frightened than me. He stepped forward. “I’m sorry about this.” He gently patted my shoulders, and then his hands moved under my arms and down my body. He crouched and patted each leg in turn, his face turned away from my crotch but coloring up all the same. When he’d finished there were beads of sweat on his forehead — sheer stress, I should think. It was a pretty safe bet that he didn’t get that close to a woman too often.

“No, that’s fine,” he said, straightening up. “Nothing there.”

“Good. Now, gather up your things and, Simon, if you show our guest…”

“Jem,” Simon said quickly.

“If you show Jem into the vestry, I will speak with the police and explain that this isn’t a siege. We need to open up; there’ll be people queuing outside for Matins.” He bustled off toward the main door, keen to put his day back on track.

Simon showed me into a side room, where there was a table, and some chairs, and a rack with loads of cloaks and things hanging up.

“Just put your things down here.” He was having trouble looking me in the eye since he’d frisked me. “Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on. No milk, I’m afraid, but I could make us a black coffee or tea. I’ll just get some water.”

He disappeared into the toilet but left the door open. The tap was running for a long time, and I could hear the squelching of soap as he washed his hands, before the unmistakable sound of the kettle filling up. I know I was pretty grubby from sleeping in that ditch, but I had a feeling it wasn’t just a bit of mud and grass he was washing away.

He smiled straight at me when he emerged. “That’s better. Now, tea or coffee?”

“I’ll talk to them on one condition: They must let Spider go — my mate. I need to see him. He hasn’t done anything. If they let him go, I’ll talk. You can tell them that.”

The rector let out his breath like a burst of steam. “Must we really go backward and forward like this? You are in serious trouble, young lady. If you have done nothing wrong, if you have nothing to hide, then you should talk to the police. Nothing bad will happen to you if you tell the truth.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

His nostrils flared. “I don’t like your attitude. Appalling things have happened. Innocent people have died. We need to get to the truth. We need to find those responsible. It’s not a laughing matter.”

“I’m not laughing,” I said, “but I’m not talking to them. I don’t trust them. Why should I? They’ve taken my friend away.”

“He was a suspect,” he said, his mouth slowly shaping all the words like he was talking to a very young kid or a foreigner. “Of course they’ve taken him away. And if he has done nothing wrong and he tells the truth, they will let him go
again. Perhaps” — his voice softened—“perhaps we sometimes don’t know people as well as we think we do. It’s possible that your…your friend didn’t tell you everything. That you got caught up in something you knew nothing about….”

“No!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the place. “It’s not like that. You’re like the rest of them. You’re twisting things around, trying to make him into something he’s not. It wasn’t him at the London Eye. It was me.”

They were both looking at me intently now. “Go on,” Simon said.

“I didn’t do nothing. I just knew that something was going to happen that day. I could see that lots of people there were going to die.”

“How did you know?” The rector was waiting for me to tell him I did it, I planted the bomb.

“I can see the day, the date, when people are going to die.” They looked at each other quickly. “I could tell you both yours, your last days, but I never will. I never tell people, it’s not right. But when I saw that all those people had the same day, that day in London, I was scared. I didn’t want to be there, so we ran away.”

“What do you mean, you can see the date…?”

“If I look at someone, I see a number. It’s kind of inside my head and outside at the same time. The number is a date.”

“How do you know what the number means?”

“I’ve seen enough death. I know. Anyway, I was right, wasn’t I, about the London Eye? I was right to run away.”

They looked at each other again.

“Why didn’t you go to the police, tell them what you knew?”

“Why do you think? It’s all so simple, isn’t it? Tell the truth and it will all be alright. Maybe it’s like that here, but it’s not where I come from. They see a black kid with some money, they see a dealer. They see a couple of kids, just chilling somewhere, hanging out, they see a couple of muggers. They need to collar someone for a crime, they collar someone — one of the usual suspects, anyone who fits the picture, doesn’t matter. Truth and lies, it all gets mixed up. No one would believe me.”