'I have lots of faith, Mallory.' Miller attempted to shoulder the sack, but he wasn't strong enough. All he could do was drag it across the floor in jerks like some small child with a too-big toy. 'You see, I have faith in people like you, Mallory. You're a man who gets things done. Why don't you turn your mind to a solution instead of being negative. As always.'

Mallory tossed the potato another time, then hurled it into the shadows. It thudded against a wall and burst.

'You act as if you're apart from all this,' Miller continued breathlessly, 'as if you can just sit back and sneer and be snide. But we're all in it together, Mallory. If people help other people, things get done. Individuals have a responsibility to the community. No one can afford to stand alone, in here or out in the world.'

'I'm sick of hearing about responsibility.' Mallory grabbed another potato and threw it furiously into the dark. It splattered against the stone.

'Don't waste the supplies!'

'Ah, we'll all be dead before we get down to the last potato. They'll be roasting the youngest and tenderest of us in those big ovens long before that.'

The silence prompted Mallory to turn. Miller was staring at him with a comical expression of horror. 'This is a Christian community!' he protested.

'It's survival, Miller. That's what humans do.'

'That's what beasts do.'

Mallory plucked another potato from the sack, tossed it in the air, but caught himself before he threw it. He peered at the wall for a long moment, then marched over and began to rap it with his knuckles.

'What's wrong?' Miller asked.

Mallory turned to him and raised a finger. 'A tunnel.'

Miller's eyes widened. 'Of course. Under the wall.'

'Not just under the wall. To the travellers' camp. It stretches almost up to the cathedral compound now, on both sides of the river. We wouldn't need to dig far. And…' He paused in pride at his idea. '… the camp is protected. By magic, or faith, or whatever you want to call it, but the point is, it's safe ground. The travellers could help us get food in through the tunnel…' He paused. 'After we've managed to build bridges with them. But they're good people…'

Miller looked uneasy. 'You know how Gardener reacted. Do you think our people will be able to deal with the pagans?'

'You were the one preaching about the Brotherhood of Man, Miller, everybody working together. And oddly it dovetails with my philosophy, too. When it comes down to survival, people will do whatever it takes to keep living.'

Miller thought about this for a moment, then smiled. 'We need to tell someone. They should start on it straight away.'

Metallic crashing exploded from the kitchen as if someone had dropped a pile of pans. It was punctuated by a terrified yell. Mallory and Miller rushed upstairs and found the kitchen assistants clustered in one corner of the room. Gibson loomed over them, scrubbing his fingers through his tight grey curls. 'What's going on here? What's going on?' he said in a flap.

One of the chief chefs clambered to his feet from where he had been sprawled on the stone flags. The way his features had been put together suggested he didn't have much time for nonsense, but he was now ashen- faced and his eyes darted around like a frightened animal's.

'It brushed right past him,' said one of the assistants who had helped him to his feet.

'What in heaven's name brushed past him?' Gibson squealed.

The assistant glanced at two or three others in the circle. 'You saw it too, right?' They nodded. The assistant was reticent to continue until Gibson prompted him with a rough shake of his shoulder. 'It was a ghost,' he said, obviously relieved that he'd got it out. 'A ghost of a churchman of some kind… or a monk… hard to tell. I mean, it had the clothes on and everything.'

'A ghost?' Gibson's expression suggested that everyone in the room was malingering.

'We saw it! All of us who were looking this way…'

'It was the face,' the chef muttered. His eyes ranged around the kitchen but couldn't fix on anyone there. 'It looked right at me. The eyes…'He turned and vomited down the side of the range, the heat cooking it instantly and filling the air with a repugnant stink.

'It was old Bishop Ward,' one of the older assistants said. 'I recognised him from the painting that used to hang in the library.'

The chef wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'When it looked at me, it felt as though my insides were being pulled right out through my eyes,' he said.

'Did he say anything?' Miller asked.

'Not in so many words,' the chef replied shakily. 'But it felt as if it was telling me about death… about all our deaths. About the end of the world.'

The study of the bishop's palace had the sumptuous feel of a Victorian gentleman's club: burnished leather high-backed chairs, books, dark wood panelling, Persian carpet, stone fireplace. It was a world away from the cold quarters the brethren endured. For many years it had been the cathedral school, but it had recently been reclaimed as a haven for the bishop from the privations experienced throughout the compound.

Mallory had spent a good half-hour convincing the ancillary staff to allow him a few minutes with Julian, whom he then had to convince to allow him in to see Cornelius. Julian looked tired and distracted, but he was receptive to anything that might get them out of their current predicament. He had told Mallory to wait and he would be granted an audience once Cornelius was strong enough. That had been three hours ago.

The opening of the door suggested that the time had finally come, but it was only Blaine. Mallory instantly fell on the defensive. Blaine was sphinxlike, didn't even acknowledge Mallory, but the moment the ancillary left, his inscrutability vanished. 'What do you think you're doing?' His voice was like stone. Mallory began to reply, but Blaine talked over him. 'There's a chain of command here. You don't go bothering your betters with your half-baked ideas' The word was a sneer. 'You come to me, and then I can tell you how much bollocks it is. Don't waste your time thinking — that's not what you're here for.' Implicit threat filled every action. 'Your trouble, Mallory, is you think you're better than anyone here. You're not. Nobody cares what you think.' Blaine took a step forwards, and Mallory had a sudden image of a Belfast backstreet, broken bottles and last orders.

The door opened and Julian breezed in, a little fresher, even managing a smile. 'The bishop is ready for you now,' he said.

Julian led them up imposing stone stairs to Cornelius's bedroom. The heavy drapes were drawn and it was oppressively warm despite the time of year: a fire blazed in the grate and candles flickered everywhere. The aroma of burning logs barely covered the atmosphere of sickness.

Cornelius was propped up in a large four-poster bed, his frame unbearably thin and fragile against the piles of cushions and brocade bedspread. He forced a weak smile in greeting and shakily beckoned for Mallory to come closer.

Only then did Mallory realise they were not alone. Stefan stood to one side, smiling insincerely, hands clasped in front of him in an attempt to appear penitent. 'I took the liberty of inviting your commander-in-chief here,' he said to Mallory. 'I thought it only right you receive due recognition for your actions.'

Every time Mallory saw Stefan, he liked him less, but at that moment he felt there was something unduly sinister about the chancellor. Mallory looked to Julian who shifted uneasily. 'I felt any suggestions should be heard by the Chapter of Canons,' Julian said. 'Stefan felt that would take too long to arrange, and that we here could easily assay its worth and decide if it should be taken forwards.'

'Tell us what you think, my son,' Cornelius said so weakly that Mallory could barely hear him.

'A tunnel-'

'Is that it? We've already thrown that idea out,' Blaine said contemptuously. 'We haven't got the time or the facilities to dig a tunnel the length we would need to get to safety. If we go short, those things will be waiting to pick us off when we come up. And you try coming up under concrete and Tarmac when you haven't got power tools. If we go west we hit the river. We could never get under that.'

Mallory allowed him to say his piece and then continued as if he hadn't spoken. 'A tunnel under the wall into the camp to the north-west. It would be easy to dig. We wouldn't have to go under any water.'

Вы читаете The Devil in green
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