Magnus said, ‘I lost my faith a long time ago, but my mother is a good Christian and she would be appalled by you.’
Father Wingate closed his eyes for a moment, as if drawing on his stock of patience. He spoke slowly. ‘If your island was subjected to the full force of the sweats, your mother might be inclined to agree with me. God has had His own harvest. It is coming to an end and we must mark it.’
Mention of his mother threw Magnus off track. He struggled to make sense of the priest’s argument. ‘You were never interested in whether Jeb was guilty or not.’
The old man nodded. His voice was soft and reasonable, as if he recognised that Magnus was a bomb that might suddenly explode. ‘You are the kind of man who needs journeys and quests. But your search for so-called justice was always a distraction doomed to failure. There is only one judge and He will weigh each of our sins in due course.’
The realisation was horrible. Magnus whispered, ‘You want to sacrifice him.’
‘That’s exactly what I said.’ Father Wingate’s smile held a boyish lack of guile. ‘We will offer up his life as a sacrifice to God.’
Thirty-Nine
Magnus was done with skulking in cupboards and passageways. He walked boldly across the lawn. One of the puppies rushed to greet him, but he ignored it and it gambolled away. The noise of banging and sawing drew to a staccato pause. Viewed from the house the four men had seemed out of kilter, but as they turned to face him Magnus wondered if they might be more united than he had thought.
He muttered, ‘Midwich Cuckoos,’ under his breath and raised a hand in greeting. A couple of the men nodded warily in response. Magnus drew close and asked, ‘Anyone in charge?’
The platform was coming along, but perhaps the men had forgotten a spirit level, because the supports were uneven and the dais listed to one side. Close to, the group had a hungry, hollow-eyed look. If Magnus had met them before the sweats he might have assumed that they were drug addicts and he wondered if that might still be the case.
One of the men said, ‘No one’s in charge,’ at the same time as another said, ‘Malachy’s not here.’
Magnus nodded, as if it were possible for both answers to be correct and asked, ‘What are you doing?’
Something caught the light in one of the high windows of the house. Tanqueray held enough deserted rooms and sly passages for generations of ghosts. He thought of Belle saying, I’m always frightened, and hoped that she was all right.
‘We’re restoring law and order.’ The tallest of the men spoke. The sun had darkened his already dark skin, but it had a dusty sheen that made it look gun-metal grey. ‘You Scottish?’
Magnus nodded. ‘From Orkney.’
‘Were you up there when the sweats hit?’
‘I was in London. Did you hear anything about how things are in the north?’
There were murmurs of ‘no’ and a few shaken heads. The man said, ‘The same as down here, I reckon.’
‘I’m heading in that direction, so I guess I’ll find out for myself soon enough.’ Magnus included the group in his smile. ‘Is this stage for a trial?’
‘Trial’s over.’ The tall man was unabashed. ‘The scumbag’s a child-killer who broke out of jail when the sweats started.’
A pale, thin man with the dogged look of a tax inspector said, ‘He murdered a priest.’ He pointed towards the back of the house. ‘Shot him against a wall over there.’
Magnus said, ‘Sounds like a maniac. Were there witnesses?’
‘Who are you?’ another of the men asked. He was bald and bespectacled and was holding a hammer loosely by his side.
All the men still had tools in their hands, Magnus realised, an arsenal of hammers, screwdrivers and mallets. He held his hands out palm up and said, ‘A survivor, like you.’ A door slammed. Magnus looked towards the sound and saw Malachy walking across the lawn towards them. He had the busy air of a man scoring things off his to-do list; a venue manager or a wedding planner. Magnus said, ‘So what’s the squinty stage for, if the trial’s over?’
The bald man shifted the hammer to his other hand. ‘We’re going to make an example of him.’ He was around sixty years old, dressed neatly in beige slacks and a pink, short-sleeved shirt. ‘Things need to get back to normal.’ He raised the hammer in the air, marking the beat of his words with it. ‘Thugs like him have to be shown that decent people are willing to take a stand. I had three daughters…’ His voice broke and he let the hammer fall to his side. ‘Three daughters,’ he repeated and the fat-thin man Magnus had noticed from the window put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. The bald man nodded. He walked a short distance from the group, took something from the pocket of his slacks and put it in his mouth.
‘Poor guy.’ Magnus had feared that the hammer was meant for him and his voice wavered with unspent adrenalin. ‘I guess you must be certain this bloke’s guilty if you’re making an example of him. No one wants a wrongful execution on their conscience.’ He looked back towards the house. Malachy was almost upon them. ‘Is this the boss?’
The man who had told him there was no one in charge said, ‘There is no boss,’ and the tall man said, ‘Malachy’s what you might call a natural leader.’
‘You’re making a good job of that.’ Malachy seemed not to notice the platform’s lopsided legs. ‘It’ll do the job nicely.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m guessing you’re Magnus.’
‘You guess right.’ Magnus ignored the hand and Malachy dropped his to his side without any obvious embarrassment.
Magnus said, ‘I was just saying to the boys here, you must have pretty concrete evidence if you’re confident enough to hang a man.’
Malachy’s hair curled over his collar but his beard was neatly trimmed and there was a pen clipped to the top pocket of his shirt. ‘What made you think we were going to hang him?’ For a dazed moment Magnus thought that he had got the whole thing wrong. Then Malachy said, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat, if you’ll excuse the expression. Have you got time for a quick chat?’
‘I’m not sure. When’s the big event?’
‘Tomorrow at noon.’ Malachy handed the bundle of paper he was carrying over to the tall man. ‘Paul, do you think you could see your way to distributing a few more of these? Junctions are probably best. Stick them on trees and lampposts, wherever you think people might see them.’
Magnus held out a hand. ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
‘I thought you were a new recruit.’ Paul passed Magnus one of the pages. ‘Who are you?’
‘Someone who would like to be sure the cat was guilty before they saw it skinned.’
Paul said, ‘We’re not fucking vigilantes.’
‘Really? I thought maybe you were Fathers for Justice.’
Paul’s fist knocked Magnus to the ground. He lay there, watching the tall man’s boots walking away, his head ringing.
Malachy said, ‘You deserved that. All these men are bereaved fathers and all of them are passionate about justice.’ He held out a hand.
Magnus shoved it away and struggled to his feet. He shouted after Paul, ‘Killing Jeb won’t bring anyone back. You can mount all the fucking crusades you want and all you’ll have to show for it is more dead bodies.’
The man gave no sign of having heard him. He kept on walking, his back straight, shoulders square.
Magnus’s nose had started to bleed, but he could already tell that it was not broken. He searched his pockets vainly for something to mop up the blood. Malachy handed him a cotton handkerchief. Magnus held it to his face and tried to slow his breathing.
‘Killing an innocent man won’t avenge the sweats.’ His words were thick and nasal.