Authors: Max China
"Don't you read the papers? We're in the middle of the biggest manhunt this country has seen for years," Tanner said. "Where are you?"
"It's a bit of a story, John, but if Boyle is still at large, it might be an idea to get the girls picked up from the station when they arrive, make sure they're safe. I'll call Stella and find out how far away they are and let you know."
"Between you and me, I think he's long gone, but let me know what time and I'll get someone to meet them."
"Thanks, John, I'll call you back."
Taking a deep breath, he phoned Stella.
"Hi, Stella, it's me. Is everything okay?"
"Jesus, Miller, what was that all about. I couldn't get anything out of Rosetta, what is it about you? I'm beginning to believe you when you say you're dangerous to know!"
"I haven't got time to explain it now. The main thing is that you and Kathy are okay. How much longer before you arrive in
London? Tanner is going to send someone to meet you, but listen, do me a favour. Don't say anything about what happened with The Sister."
"How can I say anything? I can hardly remember a thing," she laughed, nervously.
The taxi arrived.
Deciding to catch the train home in the morning, he checked into the nearest hotel to the railway station as he could.
Moments later, his phone rang.
Carla.
"Miller, where are you?"
"I'm in a little room at a hotel in Edinburgh—"
"I called you straight away. Guess what? No, don't bother. I've just discovered Michael Simpson posted some documents into an email account he'd set up under an alias. I'll explain everything later, but I now know who killed him, and why."
"I thought we were clear—"
She interrupted, "Yes, but you'll never believe what I found out."
"Oh, Carla,
please
just tell me
.
"
"It's Kale - he's the leader of the Resurrectionists . . ."
For a moment, he didn't answer. Despite everything else that came before, he'd not seen
that
coming.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Carla, give me a minute, I'll call you back." He disconnected her.
His mind raced. When Vera had touched him, and he'd seen those things: the neon sign, the garish cross over the church glowing high on the mountain.
It all became clear.
The Sister had her reasons for throwing a blanket over his senses, and he realised that she'd known her destiny all along and used him to do what she couldn't do directly herself.
He'd unwittingly helped her to get inside; now she would at last finish the task that fate had set her long ago.
Miller wondered if he'd ever see her again, and then he smiled.
Calling Carla back, he laid his cards on the table. "Listen, you're going to have to drop the investigation—"
"Miller, are you kidding me? No way!"
"Will you just hear me out? You have a great story, and we both know that, but to leak it now benefits no one, puts lives in danger and spoils whatever chances there might be of a better one, and besides, what's happened about Carlos?"
"Trail's gone cold, I haven't enough for a story really. I have some more on his background, but I don't do half a job."
"That's exactly what I'm saying…"
"Okay, okay, I'll drop it for now. I was thinking about writing a book about Boyle."
"Boyle? There's a story there, but you can't finish that one either."
"Oh, I think I can…" she said.
Rosetta stepped off the train into the cool night air and made her way towards the seafront.
The buildings in the side street leading towards it were derelict, boarded up; most of them had been that way for years. Only the dregs of society, drug addicts, winos and the down-on-their luck used them now. It was almost midnight.
It was safer on the streets during the day, while most of them slept off the effects of the night before. After dark, it was a place best avoided.
Two rough sleepers sat facing each other, with their backs against the red brick wall of a porch. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to it, was a black iron gate with three-foot railings each side of it. It was a visible deterrent to invasion, which although not unassailable, made them feel safer.
One was Irish, the other Czechoslovakian. They took turns guarding their snug in the daytime. They hadn't left it unattended since a couple of Romanian gipsies laid claim to it. It hadn't been easy to get it back. One would go off to forage for money, drink and food, while the other stayed behind. The arrangement worked well.
When they spoke, it was quietly, to avoid drawing attention to themselves. They finished the last of the drink; it was the trigger - knowing there was no more - to descend into oblivion. It beckoned the Czech first, as always, and the conversation dwindled to almost nothing.
It was the same every night.
"She's not coming . . . is she?" the Irishman said, out of the blue.
The Czech's head tipped back as he drained the last drops from the purple tin in his hand; he rolled his eyes in his companion's direction without moving his head.
He spoke from the corner of his mouth, as he swallowed. "Who's not—" His chest heaved, interrupted by a choking spasm. His lips pressed tightly together to prevent the loss of any precious liquid, his eyes bulged as he struggled to regain control of the reflex. Finally swallowing, he coughed a piece of phlegm and spat it over the wall. "— not coming?"
The Irishman shook his head in dismay. "Did your mother not tell you never to speak wit' your mouth full?"
The advice was lost on the Czech as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes red and streaming. "I don' remember my mother!" he said, with a hoarse voice.
"Shame on you,
Czech."
"An' shame to you!"
The sound of footsteps in the narrow street silenced them. The only light was the moon. Knocked out on a nightly basis, the council had given up replacing the streetlights years ago. Boarded up buildings lined both sides of the street, but the security measure didn't prevent the former hotel opposite being used as a drug den. A large corner of corrugated iron sheet covering a ground floor window pushed out. A pair of feet appeared, followed by legs and the rest of the body, which eased down to the pavement beneath. The owner of the footsteps they'd heard held the sheet open, before climbing in himself. There was always someone coming or going.
They never bothered the two men; they didn't have anything they needed.
"She hasn't been since last year," the Irishman said.
The Czech slipped further down against the wall, so that his back was almost on the floor, while his head remained upright, leaning against it. From the side, he was almost L shaped. His neck would ache in the morning, but he was too far gone to move. He closed his eyes, mumbling, "Crazy Irish . . . lemme sleep."
"Things were different when she was around. I didn't need this
shit
when she was around." He looked at the half-empty bottle with disdain. Turning it to catch the moonlight, it revealed the tiniest smear of liquid still inside.
He licked his lips and almost sensually pushed his tongue into the bottle's smooth neck, tipping it up, waiting patiently for last of the moisture to dribble over his taste buds. It warmed his mouth, and he slumped back against the wall, eyes slowly drifting out of focus.
The gate creaked. Heart pounding, he sat up rubbing his eyes as he looked warily down the steps.
The figure of a woman, dressed in a light grey cape, came towards him, her pale face and rosé coloured hair coming alive in the silvery light.
She looked younger than the last time he'd seen her.
"Czech, wake up; she's here. Our Lady is resurrectified!"
She smiled enigmatically. "Hello, Paddy."
Hollow crumpling sounds came from the thin metal sheets as they pushed back from the window behind her, she looked over as a gangly youth slid out, looking around furtively before going on his way.
The smile was still on her lips, but her face couldn't mask the sadness she felt at the plight of those around her.
Paddy was on his feet, wiping his hands against his clothes, smoothing his hair. "What is it, what's wrong?"
She turned to face him. "It's okay, Paddy. I was just thinking . . . that's all."
Every year at Easter, no matter what, her mother had returned to
Brighton. She'd have loved to have helped them all, but she recalled her words.
You can't grow seeds in a barren land; they won't take.
A question formed in her head . . . B
ut what if you bring fertile soil with you?
She rolled the stone between her thumb and forefinger. Manipulating it into her palm, she closed her grip on it. The impressions it contained had long since passed into her, but the energy it possessed amazed her, firing her body and soul.
She thought about her mother again, but she was shut down to her. Rosetta couldn't connect.
"When the time comes," her mother had said, "and the Resurrectionists come for you; seek out Miller. He'll know what to do."
She puzzled over the advice.
Why not you, Mum?
It was the one area they hadn't covered in the plan. A thought seeded in her mind, designed to seek out the light when the time came, germinated.
If she uses the wavelengths, the tall man, he will know.
Chapter 156
Monday August 27th
The improvement in Kathy had occurred almost overnight. The hospital had released her on the proviso she stayed with her sister, and Miller had insisted Stella took six weeks off work to help with her rehabilitation. He'd kept in regular touch with her throughout, and during her absence; she'd volunteered - if time permitted - to create a new website for him. On Saturday afternoon, she'd telephoned to say she would be in on Monday. Desperate for the change in direction an enhanced presence on the internet could bring, he hadn't argued. Quite apart from that, he needed her back.
The gates were already open. She was already in. As he strolled up the driveway, he noticed she was playing music.
She must be in a good mood.
He was looking forward to seeing her. Unable to suppress a grin, he pressed the buzzer. The alloy speaker panel crackled, and the bolt mechanism disengaged. Pulling the door open, he entered.
Her face lit with a smile. "Hi, stranger," she said, switching the radio off. She got to her feet and came around to the front of the desk, encircling him with her arms.
He squeezed her tight and said, "Good to see you back at last. How's Kathy?"
Pulling away, she looked almost disappointed.
"And you - how are you?" He shrugged, embarrassed. "I'm sorry; I've had so much on my mind . . . I've forgotten my etiquette."
"We're both okay," she said, "Kathy goes to a day centre now. I'm a bit worried because she's talking about becoming a nun, which is hardly surprising after everything she's been through. Doctor Marshall said that her recovery was nothing short of a miracle, but he was inclined to believe that she'd faked at least some of her earlier symptoms. Do you think he's right?" she said, cocking her head to one side inquisitively.
"It isn't important. She's so much better, and that's all that counts."
"True, but what he said is a cop-out. Why not just admit that whatever The Sister did, it worked?" She dipped her head and looked up at him from below her fringe. "Now that I've got you face to face, you've got a lot of explaining to do."
"Can I have a coffee first?"
"Of course, I'll join you." She plucked her cup from the top of her desk and said, "I'll put the kettle on."
He followed her to the kitchen. "How's the website going?" he said.
"It's all done, just needs you to look it over and give it your stamp of approval." She held up a teaspoon. "Still taking sugar? You chop and change so much I never know." She bit her bottom lip and looked at him, tears welling. "I'm sorry. I still haven't quite got over everything . . ."
"Hey, if you need some more time?"
"No, really, I've had more than enough, I - it's time I got back into normality." She took a tissue from under her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes before throwing it into the waste bin.
The kettle rumbled steam spewing from its spout. The button popped out, and the vibration slowly subsided. She poured the water and stirred. "I'm having mine black, you?"
"Same." He picked his coffee up from the worktop and wandered out into the main office area, with no one else present to worry about, he said, "What did you want me to explain?"
"All of it. I want to know why The Sister had to flee like that, and what this church you spoke about wants her for. Did she get away?"