The Sin Eater (9 page)

‘Declan, this cliff face is so hot we'll soon roast to death ourselves,' said Colm, but he said it in a low voice so Sheehan would not hear.

Declan looked back into the room. Sheehan was no longer standing near the window; they could just see him lying in a dreadful huddle on the ground at the room's centre. His hair was dried and most of it had fallen out, and he seemed to be curling in on himself.

‘Look at his hands,' said Colm. ‘D'you see his fingernails?'

Sheehan's hands were curled into claws, the nails blackened. Mercifully they could not see his face, but they could see the skin of his neck was dark and leathery-looking, and the image of a piece of pork roasting in an oven came sickeningly to them. This time it was Colm who turned away, retching. When the spasm passed, he turned back, and his face looked suddenly old, as if the flesh had shrunk from the bones. He said, ‘Declan, we
have
to go now,' and this time Declan nodded.

They began a cautious journey back around the rock spur and across the cliff face. They had reached the path when, from within the glowing watchtower, they heard Sheehan begin to scream.

They sat together, huddled on the ground, knowing they would be missed at their homes, but unable to leave. The tower was still burning, but the stones were too thick and too stubborn to actually crumble. The fire would burn itself out, and the watchtower, rumoured to have been built by the ancient Kings of Ireland, would go on standing, a blackened ruin.

Presently, Declan said, ‘He's not screaming now, is he?'

‘No.'

‘He'll be dead.'

‘Yes. Will we say a prayer for him?'

‘All right.'

Self-consciously they chanted the paternoster, and then began to make their way home.

‘Did you throw away that chess figure?' said Declan suddenly.

‘I'll do it later. When no one's around.' Colm's voice sounded distant, but Declan was relieved that his face no longer had the dry, shrunken look. He was still staring at the tower. ‘There was a strange thing,' he said. ‘When Sheehan passed the figure through the bars, I thought his hand closed round mine.'

‘Did it?'

‘No,' said Colm. ‘For when I looked at him, I saw both his hands were wrapped around his body – like you do when you're in bad pain.' He looked at Declan from the corners of his eyes. ‘But something reached out from that room and clasped my hand,' he said. ‘Something very small – nearly as small as a baby's hand would be. But leathery feeling. Dry. As dry as old parchment.'

‘You imagined it,' said Declan. ‘Or it really was Sheehan's hand you felt, but it was – um – already partly burned. It'd feel dry and small.'

‘It'd be that, wouldn't it?' said Colm, eagerly. He seemed to relax a little, then he said, ‘Did you feel the sins go into you?'

‘No,' said Declan.

‘I didn't think you did. But you'll have to find a priest to confess to. Because if you die with all Sheehan's sins on you, you'll go straight to hell.'

Coming out of Declan's world was like coming up through fathoms of thick swirling green water. Benedict was aware of jagged lights somewhere far above his head, like glinting sunlight on sea. That's Holly Lodge, he thought in confusion. That's where I belong. I should try to get back there.

But it seemed a very long way, and it took every shred of his strength and resolve to reach upwards. Then the scents and the shapes of Holly Lodge closed around him and he realized he had been lying on the floor where he must have fallen. His head ached and the light, coming through the tall windows, struck painfully across his eyes. He winced and put up a hand to shield them. Nobody had ever said how very different the light had been a hundred and twenty years ago. But of course no one would, thought Benedict. They wouldn't know. Unless you had actually been there and seen it . . .

The scent of the burning watchtower was still in his nostrils, and horridly mingled with it was that other dreadful scent that might have been roasting meat . . . He shuddered and fought down a lurch of nausea, then, moving cautiously, attempted to sit up. He was dizzy, but the sick feeling was passing. Using the side of the desk for ballast, he tried to stand up, but the dizziness overwhelmed him and he fell back, grasping at the desk's edge to save himself. The drop-down desk flap tilted and the desk partly overbalanced. Several of the small drawers flew open, and the sheaf of newspaper cuttings about the Mesmer Murderer slid to the ground. A shower of old pens and notepaper came with them.

And something else. Something that fell to the ground with a soft thud and lay inches from Benedict's hand.

A carved figure, some eight or ten inches high, dulled with the dust of years, but unmistakably fashioned from a smooth black substance. Ebony, thought Benedict, staring at it. The figure was studded with tiny glinting black gems and beads of something that might be jet. There were the folds of a cloak around it, and the sharp outline of a crown encircled the head. In one hand was a slender staff, tipped with a further crown.

The black king from the devil's chess set. The figure that the dying Nicholas Sheehan had given to Declan and Colm over a century ago.

Benedict reached out to it and, as his hand closed around it, he thought he felt tiny fingers curling around his. Fingers that were almost small enough to belong to a baby, but that were as dry as old parchment.

The darkness started to close over him once again, but before it did so, someone bent over him, and Declan's strong blue eyes looked down into his.

T
he French windows opened on to what was clearly a dining room. It smelled a bit damp, but Nell, who was fairly used to entering old houses in her work, had encountered a lot worse.

She expected Benedict Doyle to come down to greet her, but he did not, so she went through the dining room into a big shadowy hall, and called out to him.

‘Hello? I got in all right. I'm Nell West – Nina's friend, about the antiques.'

There was still no response, although she had the feeling there was someone quite nearby, listening. This was disconcerting and probably simply nerves, so Nell walked across the hall, deliberately clattering her footsteps to make extra noise. She waited for a few moments, but when he still did not appear she opened all the doors on the ground floor and looked into each room. Nothing moved in any of them, unless you counted a few drifting cobwebs, and the impression of an army of spiders indignantly scuttling away from the sudden ingress of light. There did not seem to be anything of particular interest in any of them, but Nina had said Holly Lodge had been rented for a number of years, so probably the main stuff was stored behind a locked door somewhere. Nell paused in a smaller room that might have been a study, running her hand over the dulled surface of a mahogany desk, wanting to restore the grain to life.

It was already growing dark and shadows were crawling out from the corners. She would switch on the next light she came to and hope the electricity was on. She still did not understand why the man she had seen had not come down to meet her. She went back to the hall and started up the wide stairway. There was a big landing, with a second flight of stairs at the far end. He must be up there on the second floor. Nell called out again.

‘Hello? Are you here? Is it all right to come up?'

Her words echoed eerily and there was still no response. She glanced at the row of closed doors. Perhaps the man was in one of those rooms and perhaps he really had not heard her. She was about to open the first, when a movement from the second flight of stairs made her jump. But it could only be Benedict so Nell went purposefully towards the stairs, wishing this house was not so full of shadows.

The stairs turned sharply to the left and, as she negotiated this turn, an uncertain light came in through a narrow window. It slanted across the unconscious body of a young man with dark hair lying on the half-landing. Bending over him was a second, older-looking man.

Nell froze, a shaft of panic slicing through her, then tensed her muscles to run back down the stairs and out to the safety of the street. But almost in the same moment she saw it was not after all the classic scenario of a householder attacked and the attacker preparing to finish his victim off. Whoever the older man was, he had loosened the unconscious boy's collar, clearly attempting to revive him. But Nell still hesitated, and, as if aware of her apprehension, the man half-turned to look at her. Her first impression that he was too old to be Benedict Doyle had been right; he was probably in his mid-thirties and there was a brief impression of a rather pale, lean face. His face was still partly in deep shadow, but there was the definite glint of very vivid blue eyes.

‘What's happened?' said Nell, wishing he would say something. ‘I'm Nell West. I'm a friend of Nina's. Is this Benedict? Has he fainted? Have you called a doctor – an ambulance?'

The man made a brief gesture with one hand that might have meant anything, and bent over Benedict again, obviously more concerned with him than with Nina's friend.

Nell said, ‘He's out cold, isn't he? Ought I to dial nine nine nine?'

He frowned, still bending over Benedict, then nodded.

‘My phone's downstairs in my bag,' said Nell, relieved to have something definite to do, and to be summoning help. ‘I'll go down and make the call. Um – he's breathing and everything is he?' But she could already see the slight rise and fall of the unconscious young man's chest. Perhaps he had fallen down the stairs and knocked himself out, or perhaps he was an epileptic or something like that.

She went quickly back to the ground floor, and made the call. It was annoying not to be able to provide any details, but the fact that someone was unconscious seemed to trigger an instant response.

‘They'll be with you as fast as possible,' said the disembodied voice. ‘Traffic permitting. But they'll put on the sirens for unconsciousness. Are you there on your own? D'you want to stay on the line until the paramedics get there?'

‘No, that's all right,' said Nell. ‘There's someone else here.'

‘Don't move the patient at all,' said the voice. ‘Just put a blanket over him.'

‘Yes, I'll do that. Thank you very much.'

She went back to the foot of the stairs, and called up. ‘The ambulance is on its way. They said not to move him, but to cover him up. I'll see if I can find a blanket or a rug.'

She opened several doors on the first floor before finding a big airing cupboard. Taking out a thick blanket, she went back upstairs. The unknown man seemed to have vanished; probably he had gone downstairs to open the front door for the ambulance, and most likely he had called out to tell her but she had not heard. This house seemed to have the curious quality of smothering sound. Nell put the blanket over the still-unconscious Benedict, and sat down on the floor, taking his hand in hers. Her touch seemed to reach him, because after a moment his fingers tightened around hers and his eyes opened. He looked up at her and Nell saw he had the same vivid blue eyes as the older man, although at the moment they were confused.

Nell said quickly, ‘You're quite safe, but you fainted or something, so we're getting you checked out. I'm Nell West – Nina's friend.'

His gaze went beyond her. ‘Where's Declan?'

Declan must be the older man. ‘He's gone down to let the paramedics in,' said Nell.

‘He was here . . .' His voice sounded a bit slurred; Nell did not know if it was how he normally spoke. He frowned, then said, ‘The fire – oh God, we were trying to stop the fire – have they done that yet?'

‘There's no fire,' said Nell, slightly puzzled but not unduly so. ‘You're in Holly Lodge. I think you fainted or fell down the stairs.'

‘I didn't fall. At least I don't think I did . . . There was a fire – the watchtower. It was burning – and he was inside and we couldn't get him out – oh God, he screamed so much . . .'

‘Who screamed? Is someone trapped in a fire?'

‘Did someone get to him in time?' said Benedict. ‘Did they save him?' His hands came out to Nell and the blue eyes were filled with fear.

‘Everything's fine,' said Nell. ‘You don't need to worry about anything.' She heard, with relief, the sound of an ambulance outside, and then of people coming up the stairs.

She stepped back as the two paramedics bent over Benedict, and sat on the top stair to wait while they took his pulse and heartbeat.

‘ECG?' asked the younger of the two.

‘Did he have any chest pains?' said the other to Nell.

‘I've no idea. He was virtually unconscious when I found him.'

‘We'll do an ECG anyway – fetch it from the van, will you? I don't think it's necessary though. BP's a bit low, but not to cause too much concern. What did you say his name was?'

‘Benedict,' said Nell.

‘Benedict, have you any pain anywhere?' said the paramedic. ‘No? That's good. Can you follow my finger if I hold it up? Yes, that's fine.' He looked round for Nell. ‘Vital signs all more or less normal,' he said. ‘Pupils equal and reactive. He doesn't seem to have been drinking, although he's a bit uncoordinated. We'll take him into A&E – they'll do blood tests, and keep an eye on him for a few hours. If he fell down these stairs there might be some concussion. What's his medical history? Is there any epilepsy? Or diabetes?'

‘Or does he take drugs of any kind, do you know?' asked the younger one, who had come back with the portable ECG.

‘I don't know anything about him,' said Nell. ‘I've never met him before today. You'd have to ask – Benedict, did you say it was Declan who was here?'

‘Declan,' said Benedict. ‘Yes, he was here.' His voice still sounded slightly slurred.