I didn’t know what that last bit meant, but I did want some more time.
“Yeah.”
“Go through that door into the abbey and have a seat. I’ll tell them what’s going on.”
I wasn’t sure.
“It’s all right. Go on.”
I pulled on a big metal handle and opened the inside door. I stepped through, expecting more gloom, but the church itself was flooded with light. I was in the tallest space: columns of stone reaching up and up to the ceiling, which seemed to be propped up with huge stone fans. Lower down, the windows were made of colored glass, but up high they were clear, the sky beyond now a brilliant blue. I took my bag off and sat down on a wooden bench. It dug into my back. Behind me, I could hear the bolts on the main door being slid back. Any minute now, those guys would burst through. I didn’t want to see it happen. I closed my eyes again and waited. There was the sound of voices, but I couldn’t catch all the words. The door banged back into place, the bolt went across again. Then footsteps, and the inner door opening.
“They’ll wait. They’re not happy, but they’ll wait. I said you’d claimed sanctuary in the Lord’s house and that they could not trespass here. A white lie,” he said, with a little self-conscious laugh, “made with the best of intentions.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him blankly. It took him a while to twig that I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it? Sanctuary? A place of safety,” he explained. He was younger than I had thought when I first saw him. Late twenties, maybe. Thin, with wavy brown hair crinkling over from a side part, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down, and pale, pale eyes.
“Yes,” I murmured, “somewhere safe.”
He frowned. “Do you mind me asking why the police are chasing you? I mean, you don’t have to say, not if you don’t want to.”
“They think I’ve done something bad, but I haven’t.”
“Something serious?”
“They think I blew up the London Eye.”
The frown deepened.
“Oh. I see.” He swallowed and the Adam’s apple went into overdrive. “You’re the one, the girl from London that they’re all looking for. That is serious. You really need to talk to them,” he said gently, “to clear it up.”
“Yeah, but they’re not going to listen to me, are they? They just want someone to frame, guilty as charged, case closed. You seen them, they think I done it, but I never did. I never…” My voice rose, echoing up and through the space.
“They certainly want to talk to you, but not as a suspect, as a witness.”
“They’re going to frame me, and they’ve taken my friend, and…”
“OK, OK. Look, the rector – my boss,” he added quickly, “will be here soon for Matins. I’ll discuss it with him. I need to get the church ready. Do you mind waiting here while I get on? Or you could come ’round with me. I don’t mind.”
The back of the chair was boring into my back. I didn’t want to sit there for any longer than I had to, so I got up and followed him as he bustled about the place, switching on lights, unlocking doors, and lighting candles.
“I’m Simon, by the way.” He half turned and offered me his hand. I took it in mine, and we shook awkwardly. His hand was warm, delicate, and surprisingly soft for such a thin man. “And you are…?”
“Um, Jem. I’m Jem.”
“Jem. Nice to meet you.”
Funny thing to say – suppose it was the way he was brought up, manners and everything. I didn’t know what you were meant to say back, so I didn’t say anything.
“Your hand’s very cold. Been sleeping on the streets?”
“Yeah.” We’d got to an area at the front of the church on the right-hand side, separated from the rest by a sort of wooden screen.
“If you sit in the chapel here, there are some warm air vents underneath the benches. Help you thaw out. I’ll carry on ’round, but I’ll be back in a minute, Jem.”
I sat where he’d shown me, on a cushioned ledge at the edge of the room. At one end was a table, with a gold cross on it. In the middle was a small black pillar with a candle on the top. There was writing ’round the edge. I got up to have a look: DONA NOBIS PACEM. No idea what that was all about. Why write something in a language like that, something only posh people understand? It’s like telling the rest of us to sod off, isn’t it? I read the words to myself, sounding out their strangeness.
I started as I realized someone was standing in the chapel entrance.
“It’s only me,” Simon said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on praying.”
“Not praying,” I said. “I was just…reading it.”
He smiled. “Of course. They’re lovely words, powerful.” I didn’t have time to ask him what they meant as the sharp sound of a door opening echoed down the church. I flashed a worried look at Simon.
“Don’t worry, that’ll be the rector. Wait here.”
He disappeared back into the church. I stood up and went over to the wooden screen and looked through one of the gaps in the carving. A man had come in through a side door, a small man, but solid-looking, balding and with glasses – more like a bank manager than a priest. He was looking left and right, his eyes sweeping around like searchlights.
Simon trotted up to him, and I listened as the man boomed, “What in the name of the Lord is going on here, Simon? There are armed police outside the abbey. The whole place is surrounded.”
Simon held up his hands, like he was fending off the force of the man’s voice.
“She’s a child, Rector. She came to us for help, sanctuary.”
“I was frisked, Simon. Frisked! Before they’d let me into my own church.”
“Oh…I see.”
“Well, you can stop smirking. This is serious. We must stop this right now. We must hand over the girl. Where is she?”
I shrank back farther into the corner of the chapel.
“She’s in the chapel, but” – immediately, the sound of footsteps coming toward me – “but you can’t just throw her out. She’s a child.”
“She may also be a mass murderer, Simon. And I can do exactly what I like in my church. I am the rector, after all.” They were very close now.
“It’s God’s church.”
The footsteps stopped. Their echoes faded away into the vaulted roof, and there was silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
I knew that tone. That’s it, I thought. Simon was in real trouble now, and so was I.
“I mean, that is to say, this is the House of God. Of course, we look after it, but really it isn’t ours. I mean, we’re the guardians, but…” His stumbling words trailed off.
“And your point is?”
“Surely…surely, we must search our hearts and do what Jesus would do.”
How lame was that? I thought. I’m done for. But I wasn’t, because Simon had found the perfect line, had said the one thing that could save me.
“What would Jesus do?” the rector said slowly. “What would He do? Where is she?” His tone was gentler now.
“I’m here,” I said, stepping out from behind the screen.
He looked at me, and I saw his future: forty years or more, the comfort of growing old, respected, a somebody. I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me; his face gave nothing away, but after a bit he said, “Come, let us pray together, then.” He walked to the front of the chapel and knelt down.
“I’m sorry, I-” I started to say, but Simon held his finger up to his lips and shook his head, then he shepherded me beside him and we knelt down, too.
The rector launched into a prayer, a string of stuff I didn’t understand, like he was talking to someone – asking them stuff – but of course there was nobody else there, just us three. And then he was quiet. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. I held my hands in front of me, palms together, feeling ridiculous. I didn’t know whether to have my eyes open or shut, and I shot a sneaky glance along the row to see what the other two were doing. They were kneeling like two angels on a Christmas card, eyes firmly closed, in a world of their own. My knees were getting sore, especially the one I’d twisted getting over the fence. I shifted about to try and get more comfortable, and then sat down properly, wondering how long it would be until I knew my fate.