Now, at the door, I knock on it twice and wait for a reply. Nothing. “Meera?” I whisper loudly. “Can you hear me?” On the other side of the door is only silence. Dark thoughts crowd my brain. Have they gagged her? Can she no longer speak because her mouth is so badly swollen? I raise up the hacksaw but, just as I start to saw, I realise that without her to unlock the inner bolts, the door will be impossible to open. Voices at the other end of the alley cause me to crouch behind a pile of bin bags. Four men emerge from the massage parlour. They step out into the alley, laughing and patting one another’s backs. One mimes a whipping motion as if he’s urging a horse to the finish line and they all roar with laughter again. Holding up hands to slap one another’s palms, they head back onto the street and disappear round the corner.
The image of Meera chained to the bed, legs spread, reappears in my mind and I throw the hacksaw angrily down. Looking at the entrance to the massage parlour, I consider barging my way up the stairs and demanding to see her. Two more men appear at the corner and disappear into the open doorway. Angrily I pull out my mobile phone and dial 999. Once connected to the operator I ask for the police. I’m put through to a tired-sounding man and I explain that I have reason to believe there is an illegal female immigrant being held against her will in the Far Eastern Massage Parlour, just off Cross Street in central Manchester. The person asks how I know this for certain and when I reply that I don’t, he says they’ll try and arrange for a patrol car to call the next day.
“But you need to send someone now. She’s probably up there being raped this very moment,” I almost shout.
The person at the other end of the line barely attempts to mask his boredom, assuring me that my report has been logged and will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity. But, he adds, with it being Saturday night, that may well be some time.
Furiously I yell, “Now! You must send someone now!” and kick out at the nearest bin bag. The thin plastic splits, and among the scraps of shredded cabbage, tomato, and cucumber that tumble out is a human hand. Long feminine fingers, bone and gristle visible at the neatly severed wrist. I think of the rows and rows of sheek kebabs Kaz was so eager to sell and the lumps of crudely butchered meat in the curry I’d eaten earlier. As the vomit erupts from my mouth all I can hear is the officer saying, “Sir, are you all right? Can you hear me, sir? Sir?”
Copyright © 2006 Chris Simms
Sanctuary
by Peter Tremayne
Peter Tremayne is a pseudonym of renowned Celtic scholar Peter Berresford Ellis. Mr. Ellis began writing fiction in 1977 and established the Tremayne pseudonym for fantasy novels employing Celtic myths. Today it is associated primarily with the Sister Fidelma series. A new Tremayne story collection is out: Ensuing Evil and Other: Fourteen Historical Mysteries.
Fidelma! Do you have a moment?”
Fidelma had been crossing the quadrangle of the law school of the Brehon Morann when she was halted by the voice of the Ard-Ollamh, the chief professor, himself. She turned and smiled nervously as Brehon Morann approached. She had been studying at the famous law school for six years now and had recently passed her examination for the degree of Clí, which meant she was now able to practise law in most courts in the land but with limitations as to the cases that she could undertake. However, she was ambitious to become a fully qualified advocate, able to practise defence or prosecution in all fields of the law, and that would mean at least another two years of study.
Even with her present qualifications, she was still in awe of the distinguished figure of the chief professor of the school.
“I understand from the Ollamh Neit that you have recently been studying the laws relating to sanctuary with him?” Brehon Morann said as he halted before her.
“I have,” she acknowledged cautiously.
“Excellent. Then you will be interested in accompanying me to my chambers to hear some questions that a visitor has come to put to me. It seems he seeks advice on this subject.”
“He wishes to consult you on the law of sanctuary?” asked Fidelma, before she realised that her question had already been answered, and Brehon Morann hated repetition. The chief professor did not bother to answer her. Fidelma bowed her head slightly. It was something of an honour to be singled out by the chief professor and given such an invitation.
“I will be most interested,” she responded contritely.
A man was waiting in Brehon Morann’s chambers. A tall, pleasant-looking individual, with sandy-coloured hair, whose clothing and accoutrements pointed to the fact that he was a man of some rank.
“My steward, Adnaí, informs me that you are Faichen Glas, an aire-deise of the Uí Echach Cobo,” Brehon Morann greeted him.
Fidelma realised from this introduction that Faichen Glas was a noble of some wealth and his people dwelt in the northern kingdom of Ulaidh.
The chief professor then introduced Fidelma and indicated that they should all be seated.
“What is the matter that brings you hither, Faichen Glas?” he prompted.
“I need advice, Brehon Morann. For a week I have been chasing a killer. A man who killed my own cousin. I have sworn an oath to capture him and take him back to my own people for trial. He has eluded me until now. I tracked him to a place not more than a day’s ride from here. However, I have found that he has taken refuge in a chapel where the priest in charge claims that he has been granted sanctuary. I have come to ask you, what can I do?”
Brehon Morann sat back with a sigh.
“The Laws of the Fénechus, our own laws, have very strict rules about the concept of refuge, and these predate even those on sanctuary brought in by the New Faith of Christ.” He paused. “I think you should tell us your story first and then we will come to the law in a moment. Who exactly is this killer that you seek?”
The noble of the Uí Echach Cobo grimaced.
“He is a man called Ulam Fionn, a drover without fixed land, who has long been suspected of taking cows from the local farmers among my people. He was never caught. It was noticed that he made a good enough profit at markets but nothing could be proved about the provenance of the livestock he sold there. Nine days ago, my cousin, Nessán, and his wife were awoken by the lowing of their cattle herd. It was in the morning, about first light. My cousin went out to see what ailed the cattle. The thief was caught in the act but he turned on my cousin and slew him before escaping.”
Fidelma coughed nervously.
Brehon Morann glanced at her.
“You have a question?”
“How was this man, Ulam Fionn, identified if your cousin was slain and he escaped?”
“Easy enough to answer,” replied Faichen Glas. “My cousin’s wife was the witness to the evil deed.”
“She was the only witness?”
“Only she, apart from her husband, saw Ulam Fionn.”
“Then why was she not attacked?”
Faichen Glas frowned, trying to understand the question.
It was Brehon Morann who explained Fidelma’s thinking.
“If she was the only witness to this deed, then this Ulam Fionn might well have contemplated silencing her — the silence of the grave.”
“From what she told me, the killer did not see her,” the noble replied. “She observed the killing from the window of the farmhouse and was too horrified and fearful to emerge before he left.”