‘Yes.’
Anselm had a premonition of what was to follow
‘As for Victor Brionne, or Berkeley, nothing has turned up. There are no records to show that he ever lived or died, not under those names.
Anselm thought back to the charming Robert B, legs crossed, confiding the little he knew; coming to Vespers and taking his time in parting.
DI Armstrong said, ‘Brionne has been a very cautious man. He must have changed his name again — perhaps by deed poll, or simply by claiming his papers had been destroyed: that would have been fairly easy for a refugee after the war. Either way, there’s little chance of finding him. It is as though he never existed.’
3
‘May I join you?’ A warm smile lit The Don’s face, among a shock of white hair, from his scalp down to the beard. In his hand was a pint of beer. Without waiting for a reply he drew up a chair and sat down.
‘I recognise you, actually,’ he said, nodding to Pascal, ‘from the television.’
Max Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but the stranger said, ‘Well, well, here we are, four open minds round one table. There’s nothing we cannot question and, as so often happens in the dialogues of Plato, our combined ignorance can lead us to the truth. The blind can lead the blind after all.’ He smiled cheerily
‘Look,’ said Max Nightingale, ‘we’re in the middle of something.’
‘I’ll join in.’
‘I’m sorry, but-’
Pascal interrupted: ‘Max, this is the debating room. I should have said… anyone can participate…
‘So,’ said the man with the white beard, looking amiably round the table, ‘what’s the subject?’
Pascal said, with strained patience, ‘We haven’t got one.’
‘Then let me oblige,’ and rather too quickly he said: ‘My thesis is that getting hold of the truth requires us to distinguish different kinds of narrative — symbol, allegory, parable and the like. Now, one of the main problems is when one form of discourse pretends to be another… myth or fable masquerading as fact. Story dressed up as history. ‘
Max Nightingale looked deeply bored.
The stranger said, ‘Have any of you read the Narnia books?’
While Pascal and Max Nightingale seemed irritated at the interruption, Lucy was relieved. It was an interlude in a difficult meeting, that was all. Pascal could ask about Brionne’s name after the discussion was over. There was no rush. She said, ‘I’ve read them, several times. ‘
He smiled winningly and cried, ‘But you haven’t tried talking to a lion, have you? It’s just a myth about good and evil and the lion wins.
Lucy noticed Pascal’s face darkening with a sort of expectation.
The stranger said, ‘There’s no difficulty in that instance because there are no facts, it’s just fiction. But what happens when fact and fiction mix?’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s take the Holocaust, for example.’
Lucy shivered at his serene manner, the use of charged language without reverence.
He smiled, saying, ‘How much is fact and how much is fiction?’
‘Let’s go,’ said Pascal, standing up.
‘Am I the voice of temptation in your wilderness?’ he pouted.
Lucy glanced at Max. He had paled and seemed unable to respond. She rose, picking up her coat. The straps of her rucksack were tangled round her feet. Her purse fell out, coins rolling under the table. A number of people close to them turned at the noise. An old man nearby grimaced and pulled himself up, his head inclined towards Pascal and his tormentor.
‘Come on,’ snapped Pascal.
‘Let’s take the Schwermann trial, said The Don, supremely relaxed. ‘He might be convicted. But who’ll question the old fairy tales?’
‘Lucy, please, come on,’ said Pascal.
The old man lumbered over and grabbed the Don’s shoulder, tugging at the cloth. He shouted, ‘. I’ve had enough of you, clear off. Go on, get out. ‘
The Don stumbled to his feet, his smile suddenly twisted with suppressed rage. ‘Get your hands off me, you ignorant-’
‘I’m not scared of y-your sort,’ the old man stuttered, raising a shaking fist.
From the other side of the room someone yelled, ‘Dad? What the hell…?’
Max and Pascal rose quickly, moving round the table. The old man pulled harder, his fist drawing back. Suddenly, with a look of ecstasy, The Don swung his arm in a sweeping, imperious arc and struck the old man across the face. At the same time Pascal lunged forward, trying to come between the two men. Then Lucy gasped. Pascal slipped and tumbled over. He spun to one side, falling. His left arm caught the edge of a table, his body twisted and there was a sickening thud. Pascal groaned, like one asleep, rolling his head from side to side. Both arms lay limp upon the floor. Lucy covered her face, staring at him through shaking fingers. A thin wail broke out of her that wouldn’t stop. She could only see one of Pascal’s feet, the rest of him now surrounded by people on their knees while others pushed tables and chairs to one side.
An ambulance came. All Lucy could remember afterwards were the colours. Green sheets, a red blanket, shiny chrome bars on the stretcher, yellow jackets and pale, white faces. Someone took her hand. An arm went around her shoulder. There was no sound any more, either from her or all around. It was as though she was wrapped in great puffs of cotton wool, and she floated in a vacuum, deep inside her head.
The last thing she saw before being led outside into the night air was the place where Pascal’s head had come to rest. A small but thick smudge of blood shone at the base of a rather vulgar table leg, ornate metalwork curving down to a small iron globe.
Lucy was brought home by a woman police officer at three in the morning. Alone in her flat, still surrounded by a heavy, numbing insulation, she saw a flashing light on her answer machine. Her body moved towards it and pressed a button.
‘It’s me, Cathy,’ drawled a voice into the darkness. ‘I tried you on your mobile without success and I now confidently entertain certain suspicions. So, what did you do this time? Bell-ringing? Call me sometime.’
4
Morning light danced across the hills around Larkwood. Captivated, Anselm opened the windows of his cell. He sat quietly, preparing himself for Lectio Divina, but started at a distraction: footsteps moved swiftly on the corridor outside, growing louder. It was peculiar because monastic comportment for bade anything that might disturb the spirit of recollection, and it was unheard of at that hour, even in the breach. A knock struck his door. Anselm rose, turning the handle with apprehension.
Brother Jerome had a clutch of newspapers under his arm. It was his task to read diverse reports and opinions from Left and Right and distil them into a balanced news bulletin to be read out during lunch. He had evidently just collected the papers from reception. Without saying anything he pointed to a passage on the front page of a national. Pascal Fougeres had been taken to Charing Cross Hospital, Hammersmith. He had died shortly afterwards from a brain haemorrhage sustained during a fall. The accident had occurred, it seemed, when he intervened in a quarrel about the last war. Police sources said an investigation was under way
Anselm shut his door and slumped on to a chair. With his mind’s eye he described Leviathan rising out of a boiling sea, arching high into a red sky dripping water like rain.
