House of the Dead Page 5

  Looking down, Pascal was able to follow the proceedings at the table below and saw his own body clearly, immobile in the chair. His mother later told him that he had gone into a trance for about ten minutes. The experience had a huge impact on him. He had accessed another dimension and he wanted to return there again. In a flash of intuition, he discerned with absolute certainty that it would give him power over those around him. And in that moment he had glimpsed the future course of his life. Equally intuitively, he knew there would be a price to pay. The creature he had encountered was waiting to move in on him, to use him in turn, to become his avatar. And so it had proved to be.

  Pascal felt rooted in Weris. After he went to boarding school, he would return here for the long summers. The relationship with his mother was intense: they talked so much, shared so much. She treated him as an adult, conversing about all kinds of things. She also knew when to let him roam, to run free with his friend Lieven from the farm down the road. Lieven was a quiet, watchful child and the bruises he often bore were testament to his father’s quick temper. Not that Pascal recalled Lieven ever speaking about his family.

  Together the two boys had explored the megalith-rich area of the Famenne, recording the alignments of menhirs with compasses, mapping them out on paper. Looking out over the glorious Ardennes countryside of farmland and woods, their imaginations had run riot. The friendship was unexpected, as they came from completely different backgrounds, but it gelled because they complemented each other. Pascal had shared his mother’s interest in the occult with Lieven, telling him of her fascination with magic circles, pentagrams and spells. It was Pascal who first suggested they make a sacrifice and Lieven who looked after the practicalities, capturing a cat for the purpose. They had killed it on the Lit du Diable, a table-like stone which they believed to be a Celtic altar once used by Druids.

  From that moment they had journeyed into the darkness together, learning, through the growing years of puberty, how to torture creatures and then kill them, each egging the other on through moments of hesitation. Once, for the hell of it, they had beheaded a dog in a church, placing it on the altar and urinating over it. They knew not to do that again, though, for fear of discovery. It was safer to do bad things in secret.

  The friendship had fizzled out when Pascal went to University and their social scenes diverged, divided inevitably by the boundaries of class. He heard later that Lieven had married a local girl but he had never sought him out again. It was a juvenile friendship based on shared secrets; secrets best left in the past. And Pascal had found an alternative partner in the form of the Other One.

  Such were Pascal’s thoughts as he sat in the easy chair, waiting for Kirsten to bring fresh coffee. They had been together for five years and she was his perfect foil: a magnificent trophy whom he loved to show off. They complemented each other in another, very specific, way too - he liked inflicting pain and she liked receiving it. One day he expected he would marry her, they were so well matched, but he had no intention of letting her know that until it suited his purposes. She could be quite demanding and difficult to control.

  He looked around the room, wishing his mother was still there. He thought of the day he had found her in the flat in Paris. She was sitting on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed, arms outstretched by her side, her face and skin blue, the head lolling to one side, mouth open as though about to say something. The needle was still stuck in her arm, the hand pump by her side and the leather tourniquet around her upper arm. The memory was still raw in its freshness and intensity. As the afternoon light failed he closed his eyes and thought of her, her skin, her smell, her closeness. He surrendered himself to the memories and felt again a tingle of excitement at forbidden pleasures.

  Without opening his eyes he heard Kirsten enter the room. She put the tray down and moved in close, her hand moving to his lap, locating his erection, caressing it through his trousers, and then unzipping him. With a cat-like agility that characterised all her movements, she swiftly raised herself onto him, straddling his lap. He knew she wasn’t wearing panties, she never did; she was a creature of sexual impulse. He penetrated her swiftly and they swayed together slowly, as she athletically moved him from side to side. Reaching climax he imagined he was entering his mother again, like he loved to do. His and her little secret, she used to say, a smile upon her thin red lips.

  Chapter 14

  Cashel, Ireland, 14 September 1647

  Murrough O’Brien, Baron of Inchiquin, paused as his troop of horsemen cleared the back of the Galtee Mountains and commenced their descent along the flanks of the Glen of Aherlow. He was eagerly anticipating his first view of their destination. Over the years he had approached the Rock of Cashel many times and it never ceased to amaze him. No matter the direction of his approach, each time the sight took his breath away, its grandeur inexorably drawing him in closer.

  The Golden Vale lay below them, a low-lying, rolling mosaic of lush pastures, profitable woodland and wild, berry-laden hedgerows. In the near distance, Murrough could see the River Suir meander its lazy course. Further away he could just make out the Rock itself, a great domed rib of limestone rising three hundred feet above its hinterland. Surmounting the Rock was a sprawling complex of religious buildings, dating back six hundred years, enclosed on all sides by a defensive wall. The citadel was a great Irish religious centre, rivalled only by Armagh in terms of fame and repute. It also had personal significance for Murrough, for it was here that his forefathers had been crowned Kings of Munster, his grandfather having been the last to carry the title.

  A smile creased Murrough’s lips. Times had changed and there were no native kings in Ireland now. But there was still power to be had and, if what he had heard was true, then Cashel could deliver him plenty of that. Murrough had heard about the mysterious Triskell from a priest, after the town of Dungarvan fell to his troops a few months back. The prelate, a coward in mortal fear for his life, had babbled freely about a device that could read the future and even claimed to have seen it in operation. Initially Murrough had thought the man was resorting to desperate invention, but the priest had stuck faithfully to his story even under torture and to the moment of his death. Recalling the occasion rekindled excitement in Murrough - imagine if it were true! But first he would have to get his hands on Archbishop Walshe and wring out of him the truth of the matter.

  Turning in his saddle, he called out to his men.

  ‘Look there, gentlemen, Cashel, the symbol of Confederate obduracy! Keep your eye on it, for tomorrow we will take it by storm if that renegade Archbishop will not bow to the will of Parliament.’

  Flicking the reins of his horse, Murrough resumed the descent, brooding over what lay ahead. He was a thickset man, astride a great black charger, and together man and beast conjured up an image of stubbornness and immoveable intent. The Rock had never fallen, not in the olden days when it was the seat of ancient kings and certainly not since the twelfth century when it had passed to the Church and serious fortifications in stone had first been added. But Murrough was minded to change all that. He didn’t have time for the courtesies of siege. He was a man in a hurry.

  Chapter 15

  Sligo, Ireland, July 2014

  Tara slumped back in the chair. She ought to have anticipated that Joe’s diaries might contain a reference to her mother’s death, but the possibility had simply never occurred to her. The few sentences about Catherine were brief and steeped in sadness, but what shook Tara most was the unexpected reference to herself.

  But seeing wee Tara makes it all the worse. I’ve never seen a child so struck with loss. It seems to have consumed her and sometimes I wonder if there is anybody left inside. She seems hollowed out, like a dead tree trunk.

  Those words sliced through the carapace that Tara had long since constructed around the meltdown of her mother’s death. All at once she could smell it, as if it were yesterday, coming down through the years, that awful unmistakable carbolic smell that seeped
into your clothes and stayed for days, embalming you, touching you with the scent of dissolution.

  The image of her dead mother’s body, her cold blue face encircled by white lace and ivory coloured lilies as it lay inside the wooden casket, filled her vision. She hadn’t wanted to participate in the wake, but Niamh had made her, saying, ‘You will never forgive yourself if you don’t.’ But it wasn’t true. The coffin rested on a line of chairs, in what was normally the dining room, although now with the curtains permanently closed it resembled more a chamber of death. The lying-in was awful and went on for days, in the old style, as the local women prayed the Rosary endlessly around the corrupting corpse of her dead mother. She couldn’t understand why they persevered - her mother wasn’t going to get up and walk. She was so absolutely dead and already starting to rot, which was why they doused her afresh each day in the dreadful smelly stuff. The coffin lid, resting against the wall, knew it well and waited patiently in the knowledge that its time was coming soon. Tara saw exactly what death was and it was plain as day to her that nothing of her mother remained here. All that was left in the parlour of putrefaction was horror and decay and that awful stench. She realised how dreadful the smell of death must be if the other smell – the one they added - was to be preferred. And yet each day she had to summon the courage to go in and face it all over again.

  It was probably on the fourth day that some of the women had realised that something was amiss, but no one wanted to be the first to say. She heard one of them whisper.

  ‘The child shouldn’t be here. Listen to her, that’s not normal, that sound. She sounds like a kitten dying in a ditch.’

  Tara recalled that someone had taken her out, ignoring Niamh’s assertion that she was all right and should stay. But things weren’t all right, nor were they for a long time after that and Tara, who was twelve, was kept off school for months and paraded around a succession of doctors. They used words like endogenous disorder and reactive depression and she wondered what they meant. In the meantime she lived in a world where a sense of dread – unfocussed on anything in particular but at times all-enveloping – came and went like a new neighbour, uninvited but with a right, it seemed, just to be there.

  In time the dread had lifted, the way a stubborn mist can suddenly raise itself from the bottom of a valley without warning, and she had returned to school. But she was different by then; she had changed. She had seen too often the mixture of pity and distaste in people’s faces when she talked about what was happening to her and she resolved never again to show vulnerability in front of others. And her plan had worked, worked very well for a very long time, until recent events had opened cracks in the shell and the mould had started to break.

  Chapter 16

  Brussels, Belgium, November 2004

  The young man walked through the Brussels suburb in the morning rain, his shoulders hunched against the November wind. Dressed in jeans, a tight fitting T-shirt and a bomber jacket, he looked every inch like his hero, Vin Diesel. His head was shaven but his chin sported two days’ stubble. His face had a set look to it, as though the skin had been stretched too tight by life’s vicissitudes. This was his patch, the working class streets of Scaerbeek and he knew them well; its landmarks marked the milestones of his life. He passed the coffee shop on the corner of Rue de la Poste where he had won his first fight. He recalled the face of his opponent, looking up at him, wiping the blood from his mouth. Erik had seen the raw fear in the lad’s eyes and experienced a rush of power that he would never forget. Up that alley on the right by the tabac, when he was fourteen, he had had his first fuck, a fumbling but gratifying experience with Monique. She was a local girl two years his senior, but already on the game and had made him pay fifty francs. And she had given him the clap.

  Usually Erik enjoyed these reminders. They reassured him, reinforcing his sense of who he was and how he fitted in. But today he was tense, breathing quickly, with no time for small talk. He barely noticed the drizzle that was soaking into his clothes. The tension had started last night when he had a row with Elise after coming in from the pub. He was horny but she wasn’t in the mood and he wasn’t going to have that. Life was hard and in his house he was boss. She’d come round when he whacked her one on the side of her face. But the atmosphere at breakfast had irritated him. Elise was sulking and slamming things and two-year old Lea had been in screaming mode. Why the fuck had he got married, he asked himself. It was a fool’s trap! He felt the anger well up again. Had he been a more reflective man he might have noticed that he was often angry, that in fact he was angry too much of the time. But Erik was not the contemplative type.

  His domestic life wasn’t the only problem. Things were hotting up at work and that spelled trouble. It was only five months since he had got out of the slammer after an eighteen-month stretch for actual bodily harm. And that was in the course of a day’s work for the patron. Erik didn’t want to go back in. Last night had thrown his balance which was why he had hit the oude jenever so hard. The job had gone like clockwork but he knew they had crossed a line. They had studied the professor’s movements and he proved an easy target, sticking to a predictable routine. They caught him on his way back from the library at seven-thirty in the evening, as he passed their parked van. The street was dark and empty as most people had already made it home. Erik had grabbed the old man firmly, his gloved hand closing over his mouth while Theo had seized the legs. Within seconds their target had hit the floor of the van and they swiftly bound his mouth, hands and ankles with duct tape. Looking back it was a piece of piss.

  Erik’s misgivings had surfaced later when they had bundled their captive into the cellar at one of the patron’s properties. The patron had made no attempt to hide his identity from the captive. What the fuck did that mean? Erik was pretty sure he knew and he didn’t like it. Still, he was a realist and he knew the bottom line would soon be clear enough. His boss had ordered them to turn up at ten and that was where he was heading now. Looking at his watch Erik realised he had better shift it or he would be late.

  Chapter 17

  Cashel, Ireland, 14 September 1647

  Ascending the stone staircase of the Bishop’s Tower at Cashel, Theobald Stapleton entered the library and pulled up a chair by the wooden desk where his manuscripts lay. Alert to that fact that the priest’s eyesight was failing, a monk came scuttling over and relit the candles for him. Theobald, with a smile of gratitude, resumed his work. He had laboured long years to make the written Gaelic language, hitherto the preserve of bardic families, easier to use. Less than a decade ago he had published his Latin-Irish Catechismus, which had simplified Gaelic spelling and had incorporated use of Roman Script. The achievement had prompted Cornelius Walshe, the Archbishop of Cashel, to become his benefactor, both men sharing a desire to keep the language alive for future generations.

  So it was that, a few years short of sixty, Theobald was embarking upon his second great ambition: to write, in Gaelic, a history of the Celtic monasteries. It would necessitate much travel, searching out monastic manuscripts and records. This would not be an easy task in a time of war but nonetheless his spirit took wing at the thought. There was such a story to be told! The monasteries had been more than just religious establishments; they were communities that encompassed commerce, crafts, agriculture and recreation not to mention education and medicine. They had thrived within Celtic society, attracting many students from abroad and even allowed women to play key roles. In a rural landscape without towns, the monasteries were large settlements, often fortified, where thousands of people had lived and the pursuit of knowledge had flourished. The great medical School at Tomregan, for instance, founded in the fifth century, was for long unrivalled in Europe.

  Yes, there was so much to tell, Theobald reflected, including the eventual demise of the monasteries under the Tudors. He only had to look out the window where he sat to see the ruins of Hore Abbey, little more than a stone’s throw away, for a reminder of that.

  But tr
y as he might Theobald could not focus on his work. The cries of voices and occasional musket shots kept drawing his attention to what was happening outside the walls. That very morning the Archbishop had assured him that Cashel’s defences could withstand any onslaught. Not that it would ever come to that of course; the parlays alone might take weeks. There was no cause for alarm, he had said. But Theobald was unable to shake off a sense of foreboding. He resolved to see for himself what was happening and climbed the narrow stairs to the top of the tower.

  A breeze greeted him as he stepped out onto the ramparts. Normally the view over the green farmlands of Tipperary was a heartening sight, but not so today. The sky was overcast, grey clouds warning of impending rain. His eyes went straight down to the nearby Major’s field, where small groups of the enemy, the Parliamentary forces, were gathering and setting up camp. No sign yet though of the standard of their leader, the Baron of Inchiquin. The early arrivals might have been gathering for a fair, he thought. Yet nonetheless he felt a frisson of fear, and crossed himself. He felt ashamed of the power fear had over him, the weakness it portrayed, for in truth he was a timid man.

  The breeze was stiff at this great height. Pulling up his cowl up over his head, Theobald retraced his steps, resolving to put aside his anxieties and resume his work. It was a sensible enough plan, for he wasn’t to know that he would be dead within a day.