'How different is it from the manifestation of the Holy Spirit?' Gardener waved his fork in Daniels' face.
Daniels batted it away. 'Very different. It's not real for a start.'
'And there were lights, floating over the altar,' Gardener continued. 'Beeson heard voices when he was praying in the cathedral… calling to him, saying… worrying things.'
'What kind of things?' Daniels said.
'I don't know.'
'No, because it's a story, and a feeble one at that. They never have any detail. Just someone heard this, or someone saw that.'
'Don't believe it, then,' Gardener said with a shrug. 'See if I care.' He turned to Miller and Mallory. 'But the smart folk here think it's wise to keep your wits about you, and to stay away from the lonely places at night-'
'Has anyone been hurt yet?' Daniels asked.
'No.'
'Then why are you making out like it's the Amityville Horror? You're such an old woman, Gardener.'
Gardener smiled tightly at Miller and Mallory. 'You know what it's like out there in the world. And it's the same in here. Nothing's what it seems.'
Their conversation was disrupted by a commotion near the door. Diners peeled away to allow a small entourage to move slowly into the room. At its centre was the bishop, walking with the aid of a cane and the support of two attendants. Julian and Stefan followed behind. All eyes followed Cornelius's excruciating progress.
Daniels' brow furrowed. 'He normally eats in the palace.'
'He looks as if he hasn't got the strength to get across the room,' Mallory said.
'His legs are a bit shaky, but don't go underestimating him. He's sharp as a pin,' Gardener said.
'What are the others like?' Mallory's attention was fixed on Stefan.
Daniels pointed with a carrot impaled on his knife. 'Stefan's a bit of a cold fish. He used to be some businessman up in Manchester before he saw the light, I think. Julian's OK. A bit too quiet for me, thoughtful, you know, but he's got a very liberal view of life. He wasn't involved in the Church before the Fall, but they promoted him out of nowhere because he's brilliant, or so they say. Very learned about philosophy, comparative religion. I don't know if he was an academic, but he's a sharp guy, definitely.'
Cornelius made his way to a table not too far from the door, which was hastily vacated for him. His attendants lowered him into a chair while Stefan brought over a plate of food that he proffered with a formal bow.
'This is a show,' Mallory said quietly. 'A little spin-doctoring. To let the common man know the bishop is just an ordinary joe. He's not larging it in the palace. He can eat vegetable mush with the rest of the suckers.'
'Be respectful,' Miller hissed.
Mallory began to mop up his gravy with his bread while gently fantasising about pizza.
'And that is Gibson,' Daniels said, pointing to the last imposing figure in the group. He must have been twenty-five stone, with a comically jolly face that appeared to be permanently on the point of a guffaw. His cheeks were bright red, his hair tight grey curls; large silver-framed spectacles surrounded eyes fixed in a humorous squint.
'Don't tell me,' Mallory said, 'he's the Canon of the Pies.'
'The treasurer, actually. Looks after all the ornaments, vestments and gold plate tucked away in the vaults.' Daniels smiled as he ate. 'But he does oversee the kitchens as well.'
'So we're in their hands.' Mallory didn't attempt to hide his dismissive- ness.
'Them and their advisors,' Gardener said gruffly. 'There's a whole bunch of arse-kissers following them around, whispering in their ears. Keeping them informed, supposedly, because the top dogs don't have time to spend finding out what the rest of us are thinking. But the arse- kissers are guiding them, really. They're the power behind the throne.'
Daniels snorted. 'Oh, not that routine again! You're only upset because they're not whispering about you.'
'It's true. You've got to watch out who you're talking to round here. Everybody's got some sort of thing going on.'
'Thing?' Daniels shook his head and sighed.
'Come on, you know it's true,' Gardener said. 'This whole place is split down the middle. The modernisers think we should build on the state the Church had reached just before the change, make it acceptable to modern thinking. The traditionalists want a hardline approach. Everybody's plotting.'
'Well, as much as I'm enjoying your comedy double-act,' Mallory said, 'I don't think I can stare at these vegetables any more without gnawing on my own arm.'
'You should eat it up,' Gardener said, cleaning up the last of the gravy on his plate. 'You'll be desperate for it tomorrow when Blaine's got you scrambling over that assault course.'
'It's not as if you've got anywhere to go,' Daniels said. 'It's compline next, or had you forgotten? You'll soon get used to realising you have no time of your own.'
Mallory rocked back in his chair. 'You know, this place is just too much fun.'
Despite Mallory's disgruntlement, the atmosphere in the cathedral was deeply affecting. Outside, dusk had fallen, the darkness licking over a chilly landscape freed from electric lights. Inside, the stone walls basked in an ethereal golden glow from hundreds of candles. Incense and tallow smoke cocooned the worshippers who stood shoulder to shoulder along the nave and the quire. The plainsong rose up, filling the vast vault with a mesmerising, heady sound that reached deep into Mallory, tugging at emotions he barely thought he still had. It was a single voice made by hundreds of people, simple and pure yet powerful on so many levels. Mallory glanced over at Miller to see tears streaming down his cheeks.
Briefly, Mallory felt a sense of belonging that put all the unpleasantness of his past life into the shade. Perhaps there still was a chance for him: a fresh start, although he'd long ago given up that childlike whimsy of believing that some Higher Power took enough of an interest in the ants that swarmed the earth to give them a second chance. The fleeting hope, that weak thing he thought he'd scoured from his system, was a simple by- product of the perfect confluence of music and moment, he told himself. But still, it tugged at him.
He was examining the odd thoughts pulled from him by the intensity of faith when his concentration was broken by a figure he could just glimpse on the edge of die congregation, slightly ahead of him and away to the left. His face was obscured by his black cowl pulled far forwards, unusual in itself as everyone else there went bare- headed. But there was no other reason why Mallory's attention should be drawn to him so powerfully that he couldn't look away. The figure was still, his shoulders slightly hunched. He didn't appear to be singing, merely watching or perhaps listening, deep in thought.
Mallory couldn't understand why the figure made him feel uneasy, or why the tingling tiiat had started in the small of his back was slowly spreading up his spine. Some deeply buried part of him was trying to break out of his subconscious to issue a warning.
As he watched for some sign that would give him an explanation for his reaction, the figure began to turn towards him, as if he sensed Mallory's eyes upon him. Inexplicably, this filled Mallory with dread. He didn't want to see the face inside that cowl.
He looked down at his hands, then up towards the altar, and when he did finally glance back, the figure was gone.
Outside in the night, Mallory tugged Miller away from the uplifted worshippers streaming back to their huts for a few hours' grace before the whole round started again. He found a shadowed spot next to the cathedral walls and said, 'Let's hit the town. We can dump our uniforms and explore. There's got to be some life out there. Maybe we'll find someone who'll take pity on us and buy us a beer.' He knew his bravado was a response to the sobering but stupid fear he had felt in the service.
'Are you crazy? You heard what they said — being caught without the uniform-'
'We're not going to get caught.'
'-is a punishable offence. And we're not supposed to go out of the compound after curfew. I don't even know if we're supposed to go out there at all.'
'I told you, we're not going to get caught. Who's to know? Don't you want to find out what your new neighbours are like?'
