Matthew engaged in pointless small talk with Belinda for a few moments, then made his excuses and headed for the library in the west wing. The coolness of the room was in sharp contrast to the atmosphere outside. Hatch found himself alone in the echoing circular chamber. He headed towards the section devoted to nineteenth-century history, and removed the copy of The Peninsular War and Its Causes The Peninsular War and Its Causes from the top shelf, depressing a hidden button set into the case. from the top shelf, depressing a hidden button set into the case.
The tunnel behind the bookcase was narrow, and Hatch had to stoop to prevent his head banging on the wooden ceiling. After twenty yards the floor beneath him gave way to four stone steps cut into rock the colour of bleached bones, the tunnel widening as it continued downward. Despite the gloom, Hatch could see the rough footprints beneath his feet.
Ever since he had first come to this place, as a fourteen-year-old, he had been aware of following his ancestors.
Then came the still incongruous sight of an ornate, seventeenth-century, gold-trimmed mirror set in the rough rock. Hatch stood before it. He remembered the terror he had felt when he had faced his own reflection in this place as a boy.
''Tis I,' he said, his voice no longer Oxford-and-London English, but rich and filled with West Country inflection.
'Where art thou?'
In the mirror, Hatch's reflection had gone, replaced by swirling mist, from out of which stepped a tall figure in the rough clothing of long-dead centuries. His eyes were the colour of blood, his cheeks as ruddy as a funeral-parlour corpse. He looked at Hatch with an animal intensity.
'What be thy business?'
Hatch had met this avatar before.
'Inform thy master John Ballam, that research into the cure goes well. I'm expecting to have the latest results within the next four days.'
'The master grows impatient,' cut in Ballam with a snarl.
'Jack i' the Green has waited nigh on three hundred years for his coming,' said Hatch contemptuously. 'He can wait another week.' And with that he turned and walked back up the tunnel.
In the mirror, John Ballam faded into the mist. But a gaggle of voices followed Hatch up the tunnel.
'The work must be influenced to serve the master better.'
'The time is almost upon us.'
'Delay frustrates us, but soon we shall be free.'
The Reverend Thomas Baber knelt down as the parishioners began trudging through the final verse of 'Oh for a Closer Walk with God'. Was it him, or was the organ even more out of tune than normal? That really would need attention again, when funds permitted.
Baber shook his head to clear the babbling, interminable clutter from his mind. Concentrate. He rested his head against the pulpit of oak, knowing that it shielded him from the rest of the church, affording brief sanctuary. He sighed, trying desperately to find God within his heart... And found something else, as dark and gnarled as the wood that surrounded him like a dry and dusty womb.
So shall my walk be close with God, Calm and serene my frame: Calm and serene my frame: So purer light shall mark the road That leads me to the Lamb. That leads me to the Lamb.
Baber sighed. Fine sentiments, but they were alien words, with no relevance to Baber's inner life. This was the lull before the storm.
He rose to his feet, a snivelling, fidgeting hush coming over the congregation. He surveyed them slowly, heads all turned up towards him, faces bright with expectation and fear.
Baber closed his eyes. 'May the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Amen.'
The murmur of assent from the villagers echoed down the main aisle, bounced off the high Gothic arches, before finally dissipating on the stained-glass window of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Very precisely, Thomas Baber opened his leather-bound volume of notes. But he barely glanced at them.
'Saint Paul, I think, put it well in his epistle to the church in Rome. "I am unspiritual," he wrote. "Sold as a slave to sin.
I do not understand what I do. I know that nothing good lives in me, for I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. Instead, I keep on doing the evil things I do not want to do."' Baber paused, as if the words were too painful, too intimate to relate. '"What a wretched man I am!"' he exclaimed, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the pulpit. '"Who will rescue me from this body of death?"'
Baber paused, leaving the heartfelt plea hanging in the air like an accusation. 'Good men and bad have pondered this ever since. Who will rescue us from the turmoil - the war, as Paul puts it - that we feel within?' He scanned the faces arranged below him. 'As I walk the village, I notice many things. I see delinquent, drunken children, completely out of control.' He glared at Mr and Mrs Tyley. Only the man returned his gaze. The woman's cheeks were still wet with tears. 'I see abominable practices and brutality that defies description.' There were nervous coughs from pews towards the back of the church. 'I see infidelity, unfaithfulness and sexual immorality.' He glanced at the Matsons, sitting in the side aisle. They stared forward, unblinking, like children at assembly, their hands limp in their laps. The space between them was the chasm of their lives. 'Racism, fornication, contempt for the Lord and his day. I see all these things, and am appalled.'
Baber's voice was rising in volume and pitch now. He wasn't quite shouting, but the anger in his voice was like a flaming brand. Dust motes sparkled and danced in the air, lit by a beam of sunlight through one of the side windows. 'As Saint Paul said in the letter to the Galatians, "The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: impurity and debauchery, idolatry and witchcraft, hatred, discord, jealousy, selfish ambition. I warn you, as I did before," concludes Paul, "that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God."'
Baber licked suddenly dry lips. 'I warn you, the kingdom of God is at hand. It is close by! Even in Hexen Bridge!' The affirmation was so strong, so surprising, it almost shocked Baber. He could feel the sharp intake of breath in the congregation. 'And if we do not follow that narrow road that leads to the Lord, we shall instead find ourselves on the wide and easy road that leads to hell and destruction.' There was a snigger from somewhere, some blase, contemptuous child.
'Hell is no laughing matter,' Baber continued, louder still.
'The valley of Hinnom, to the south of Jerusalem, is the Old Testament picture of hell. A place of slaughter, where children were cut open and sacrificed to Molech, a rubbish dump that burnt continuously and shifted like quicksand. In the New Testament, we hear of a lake of burning sulphur, a place of torment, an underworld, a bottomless pit. Our Lord himself spoke of a fiery furnace, the outer darkness, where there is weeping, and gnashing of teeth.'
The boy who had dared to laugh was staring at his shoes, his face pale. 'You think the filth of Hexen Bridge, the filth in your own black hearts, is terrifying beyond description? If you stay on the wide road, that will be as nothing to what awaits you when reunited with your true master. The author of the turmoil and conflict in your hearts.'
Thomas Baber closed the journal as firmly as one would close the book of life on the unrepentant. '"Who will rescue me from this body of death?"' The answer was clear to Baber, but he knew that he could never say it, not in this place.
'Who indeed?' he concluded, turning sadly away from the villagers.
Hatch emerged back into the library to find Trevor Winstone sitting in one of the leather-covered reading chairs, his feet propped up on a stool, smoking a cigar. Hatch's younger partner looked decadent, and the initial inclination was to hit him hard. Hatch found himself having these urges more and more, especially in the House. The desire to take three steps across the chamber and slap the opposition spokeswoman on defence across the face was enormous.
'You shouldn't be smoking in in here,' he said, closing the secret entrance. 'It's very bad for the books.' here,' he said, closing the secret entrance. 'It's very bad for the books.'
'You're right, of course,' said Trevor, easing himself out of the chair and turning to face Hatch. He stubbed out the cigar in the fireplace. 'Mind you, I don't imagine the novelists, poets and historians who wrote these magnificent works would approve of them being attacked by grubby little hands, either,' he continued.
'You were young yourself once,' said Hatch. 'I can remember what a snot-nosed brat you were. You and Becky Baber. The Romeo and Juliet of Hexen Bridge.'
'All right,' said Trevor defensively. 'That was a long time ago.' He looked at the politician more closely. 'You look knackered,' he observed.
'I should be,' noted Hatch with a wicked smirk. 'I've been up half the night giving your ex-girlfriend one.'
Trevor winced but said nothing.
'Well, you'll know yourself, she can be pretty energetic,'
continued Hatch.
'Like I said, that was a long time ago.'
'The consignment is safe?' Hatch asked, changing the subject abruptly.
Trevor nodded. 'Phil's got it, not far from here.'
'Good.' Hatch grinned.
'And our little visitor?' queried Trevor, not sharing Matthew Hatch's boyish enthusiasm.
'Oh, he'll be dealt with up in Giroland soon enough.'
'Fine,' said Trevor, heading for the door. 'I don't want to know the details.'
'Squeamish?' asked Hatch.
'No,' said Trevor flatly. 'Just not interested.'
An hour later Trevor sat in his car three miles from the village, listening to the bleak thrash of Strawberry Horse.
Longman's copse was a secluded enough place for a secret meeting, the arch of trees on either side of the road creating a dark cathedral, into which it was virtually impossible for prying eyes to see.
Another vehicle pulled up behind him, the engine just audible above the music. Trevor was out of the car in seconds, his fingers tight on the trigger of the sub-machine-gun which he held out in front of him.
And there stood Rebecca, her hands on her hips, a scowl of suppressed amusement on her face. 'Is that thing an extension of your penis, Trev?'
'Jesus, Becky...' He tossed the gun on to the front seat of the car and came towards her, kissing her savagely on the mouth.
'Ah, ah, ah,' she tutted, pushing him away with a look of disapproval. 'Business before pleasure, matey. I had to make more excuses than the captain of the Titanic Titanic to get here.' to get here.'
'Trouble?'
'Not really. That girl who came with the Doctor is snooping around. She's harmless enough, though. Apparently the Doctor's missing. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'
Trevor shook his head mutely.
'I've had to leave her at the vicarage,' continued Rebecca. 'I made up some cock-and-bull story about needing to see a sick friend.'
'Charming,' said Trevor ironically.
'Come on,' said Rebecca impatiently. 'I've got to get back.
You said you could show me some merchandise.'
'Well,' said Trevor, 'As I told you in London, it depends on the amount of collateral damage you hope to cause.'
'I want to blow the whole world ten feet off the ground,' said Rebecca with an anger that Trevor had seldom seen before.
'I've got plastic explosives that'll shift it off its axis if that's what you want.' There was a dour sadness in his voice.
'Untraceable, too. If you're careful.'
'Aren't I always?' she asked angrily. 'Just show me what you've got.' Trevor tugged at the tarpaulin in the back of the car to reveal rows of crates and boxes, stuffed with bubble wrap and terrifying weaponry. Rocket launchers, machine-guns, mines, timers and a bewildering array of explosives.
Many of them still carried small white tags, as if giving the prices of Action Man's latest accessories.
'I like your showroom, Trev,' smiled Rebecca.
'I don't,' he said sourly, glancing around him nervously.
'OK, what are you interested in?'
Ace had let the rest of the day slip through her fingers like sand on a beach, and she felt a familiar frustration that the Doctor hadn't been more explicit with his instructions.
Actually, if truth be told, she had assumed that he would turn up, as ever, and was more irritated than concerned when he hadn't.
She'd hung around the village, watching people come and go, but they seemed wary of her. She had the feeling that important things were happening, but it was always just out of sight, and whenever she approached people they would stop talking and let her pass, continuing their business only when she was out of earshot.
She glanced out of the window. Black clouds had come in from the west, and night had fallen quickly. There was rain in the air, but none fell. Ace could sense the nervous energy of those that braved the seats just outside the Green Man, and she wondered if Hexen Bridge was like this all the time.
No wonder everyone here was a loony.
From her room, high up in the inn, she could watch the entire village. In her position the Doctor would probably stand, brooding, hatching plans and schemes, alert for anything that went on beneath him. Ace found herself being distracted by the sound of a lovers' tiff, and the constantly changing, endlessly rolling grey-black clouds that reached down to brush the church spire and the Gothic pinnacles of the school.
The school. That was the place to start. After all, the Doctor had been there the previous evening, and as far as she could tell no one had seen him since. The obvious answer was that he had found out something he shouldn't, and was trussed up like a pig about to be spit-roasted.
She walked down the rickety back stairs and into the bar.
Bob Matson was noticeable by his absence, which suited Ace down to the ground.
Out on the green the lovers had come to some sort of sobbing truce, while their mates laughed and joked and pretended they hadn't heard the argument. A lingering embarrassment hung in the air like the claustrophobic storm. Thunder rumbled distantly.
Ace had noted that a lane ran from a point just shy of the Chinese restaurant towards the back of the old school. Good.
She didn't really want to go marching up to the front entrance, demanding the release of all prisoners.
A Taste of the Orient glimmered in the distance, the stone lions looking even more powerful than usual. It was as if they sensed the atmosphere, and had puffed up their chests in confident expectation. The car park was empty, but the restaurant seemed full, dark shapes visible through the windows.
As she came closer she noticed a figure moving towards the restaurant. While Ace was walking confidently, so that if challenged she could play the innocent with ease, this person stuck to the shadows like a child playing at war. He moved with the artless clumsiness of a large man, and seemed to be looking away from Ace and towards the restaurant. Ace took her chance, and ducked behind a tree. When the man looked back towards the village, he saw nothing and, emboldened, he stepped through a small lit area and towards the side door.
It was Bob Matson, looking as guilty as sin. He carried a plastic bag with him.
A Taste of the Orient's side door was simple and wooden, brightly painted and lacking all the mock opulence of the restaurant's main entrance. There was a door buzzer to one side, and a brass letter box in the centre. Gingerly, Matson opened up the letter box - even from where Ace was watching she could tell it was one of those finger-crushing ones that postmen hate - and he began forcing the contents of the bag into the house. Matson had his nose buried into one expansive shoulder.
Ace could hardly believe it. The man was posting excrement through the letter box.
When she was growing up, she had thought that racism was maybe something that affected just her street or her school. As her consciousness expanded, the limits were continually pushed back. Birmingham, Martin Luther King, South Africa, the Second World War. Her travels with the Doctor had expanded her viewpoint still further, the dizzying scope of their explorations almost trivialising the problems of Earth.
But this was a shocking reminder of the mundane hatred that goes hand in hand with everyday life. If she'd resented Matson before, she loathed him now. She had half a mind to cross the road and confront the man, sod the consequences and Hexen Bridge's inability to deal with the appalling behaviour of its own people.