Thirty-Seven
Magnus shone the beam of the torch through the grille in the floor, down into the cell below. Jeb was stretched out on the cold flagstones and for a moment Magnus thought he was dead, but then he groaned and sat up, shielding his eyes with his hands.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me.’ Magnus turned off the torch, but he had already seen the pale skin flaking from lack of sunlight on Jeb’s face and hands. He had only been down there for a day and a night, but the man looked drawn and Magnus wondered if Will had bothered to feed him. ‘How’s the leg?’
Jeb sounded as if his throat were made of sandpaper. ‘The rest of me’s so fucked it’s hard to know.’
Belle was standing out of sight by the staircase. Magnus heard her intake of breath at the sound of Jeb’s voice and resisted an urge to turn and look at her. He pressed his face close to the bars. ‘I’ve not made much progress.’
‘I told you, you wouldn’t, fucking Jock.’ There was a sound of rustling as Jeb shifted in the darkness below. ‘Have they decided how they’re going to do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Kill me.’
Magnus turned the torch on again, angling it across the grille so he could make out the substance of the room below, without blinding Jeb. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know much, do you? Did you bring me any grub?’
Magnus did not want to mention the men congregated in the kitchen. ‘I’ve just got back.’
‘Christ, prison’s a distant memory for you, isn’t it?’ Jeb curled his body forward, hiding his face and stretching his spine. ‘I’ve been thinking about how I want to go.’
‘There’s no point in—’
‘Get Raisha to make something that’ll knock me out. Something painless, she’ll know how to do it. And keep that old priest away from me. I don’t want the last thing I hear to be him blathering on about God’s forgiveness.’
Belle was quietly sobbing in the turn of the staircase. Magnus wanted to tell her to shut up, but he said, ‘Raisha isn’t here any more.’ Jeb looked up. It was hard to make out his expression, but something about the way he cocked his head made Magnus say, ‘She knows as little as we do about Jacob’s murder, less.’
‘It’s the guilty who run. I don’t know why she did it, but I’m betting it was her.’ The sour stoicism Jeb had cultivated in Pentonville was gone. In its place was fear. ‘You let her escape.’
Magnus said, ‘I think I can persuade Belle to change her mind. I’ll ask her to talk to Will and Father Wingate with me.’
‘You won’t turn that bastard. The only way to change his mind is to put a bullet in his head.’
‘A life for a life?’
‘Live by the sword, die by the sword.’
Magnus said, ‘That sounds like an argument for not killing him.’
A grating metal-on-metal sound came from somewhere beyond Magnus’s line of vision. He switched off the torch, sending the space back into darkness. There was a creak of hinges and a scraping noise that Magnus guessed came from an untrue cell door dragging across flagstones. Magnus jerked away from the grille, just before a light arced into the dungeon. A voice he did not know said, ‘That’s him. I remember his face.’
Jeb’s voice was hard and belligerent. ‘Do I know you?’
‘He definitely did it?’ Magnus recognised Will’s voice.
‘No question.’ The stranger sounded convinced. ‘You’ll be doing the world a favour.’
Magnus risked a quick look through the grille. Will and the stranger were standing in the cell doorway and he could only make out the shadows they cast on the floor. Jeb was struggling to get to his feet, but his damaged leg would not co-operate. He gave up and half sat, half lay; sprawled on the flagstones like a man who had suddenly plummeted to earth.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m no one.’ The stranger had a pleasant voice, mild and lilting, with the reasoned delivery favoured by newsreaders. ‘We’re all no one now, except for you. You’re a murderer.’
Will set something down on the flagstones. ‘Water and sandwiches.’
Magnus heard the scraping sound of the door closing.
‘The key witness at my trial was a fucking liar!’ Jeb tore off his shoe and threw it at the door but the key was grating in the lock. He waited a moment, gathering himself, then looked up towards the ceiling. Magnus’s eyes met his; a powerless god’s-eye-view. Jeb said, ‘Either find a way to get me out of here, or find a way to kill me. I don’t want them to have the satisfaction.’
‘I’ll get you out,’ Magnus promised. He stood up, his mind empty of escape plans. He had almost forgotten Belle, waiting in the staircase behind him.
She whispered, ‘Was it the short guy with the longish hair? He’s their leader.’
‘I couldn’t see him.’
‘I bet it was him.’
The girl began to climb the stairs. Magnus caught her by the arm.
‘Raisha told me that you were the first one to find Melody.’
Belle’s features were lost in the dark, but her voice was clear of tears. ‘She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.’
‘Being frightened is nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Is that all she told you, that I was frightened?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘I’m always frightened.’ She shook him free and resumed her climb.
Magnus asked, ‘What happened in the barn?’
Belle’s footsteps halted. Magnus remembered the gun tucked in the belt of her jeans and recalled again that it was supposedly the same one that had been used to shoot Jacob. He heard her turn towards him and felt the warmth of her body as she leaned in close and whispered, ‘I killed her.’
The basement was as far as the staircase descended. There was nowhere to go except upwards, and so he followed her, his mind numb, into the deserted hallway of the main house and then through another unmarked door in the wallpaper and up to the attic storeys. She led him into a room that had been converted into an artist’s atelier. The north side of the ceiling and much of the wall was composed of panes of glass. But it was not the room’s bright contrast with the murk of the basement or the unbroken view across the countryside that drew Magnus’s breath.
Images of death danced over the walls, across a landscape that drifted between green countryside, seas that raged then shone glass-calm, and towering cities in skyscraper-wonder. There were cramped suburbs of identical houses and ancient monuments: the pyramids, the Coliseum, Stonehenge. Sometimes death took the form of the laughing skulls that had decorated bags, T-shirts, scarves, even children’s clothes before the sweats. But it also came clothed in flesh, in the shape of beautiful women, bare-breasted mermaids and aged crones. A hooded figure equipped with an hour-glass and scythe crept a steady path through the scenery, touching people on the shoulder, proving that death is no respecter of age, piety, wealth or beauty.
At first Magnus thought all the images had been cut from books and magazines, but then he saw that some of the figures had been painted. The style was naïve, with little concession to perspective, but somehow that intensified their effect.
‘Did you do these?’
‘I used to make collages from photographs I cut out of my mother’s fashion magazines when I was little. I got quite obsessive about it.’ Belle smiled. ‘Sometimes I’d see a picture I liked, a beautiful model, or an amazing building, and tear out the page before she’d read it. I knew I’d get into trouble, but I couldn’t stop myself.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I thought I’d grown out of it.’
Belle had seemed like a spoiled child-woman bemused at her sudden lack of advantages in the post-sweats world, but the images on the wall formed a map of sweltering pain. Magnus stepped closer. He recognised the origin of some of the photographs, others he guessed: here was a smile culled from a toothpaste commercial, here a child that had been used to advertise cereal, here a rose that had once blossomed from a garden centre catalogue. He ran his fingers lightly over the collage, feeling the roughness of the pictures’ edges. It was all there: the pain of loss, the petty frivolousness of things he missed, the hopes — some of them so ludicrous it was strange to think of them now — that would never be realised.