12:07 The Sleeping, page 13
“After his mother died he said he turned to the church, and after five years he found love. I take it that his faith must have finally spoken to him, and that he lived with that love for the next seven years. What happened to stop his newly-found faith?” Lance said, looking deep into Sister Miriam’s eyes for the answer.
Sister Miriam cried with laughter.
Lance couldn’t understand what was amusing.
Sister Miriam controlled herself—it wasn’t easy. She giggled like a little girl that saw something rude in what was supposed to be totally innocent.
“Would you care to explain?” Lance said.
“With pleasure,” Sister Miriam sniggered. “Please excuse me… it’s not my Great-grandfather I’m laughing at—it’s you.”
“Enlighten me,” Lance said with a look that said let’s be serious.
Sister Miriam gave a small cough to put stop to her girlish behaviour.
“He did indeed turn to the church. But not for spiritual gratification,” she said. “It was for fulfilment of a different worship he sought. He’d seen someone whose vocation was to the church—a man aged forty who fought his condition through God—that made his heart flutter.”
“I’m sorry! Are you saying Mr. Green is gay?”
“Yes I am. He was fifteen when he started relations with this man. After five years their love for each other was so strong that they’d made the decision to live together as a couple. Seven years after that, it ended.” She said it so matter-of-factly, that it sounded like a soap opera.
“Why did their relationship end?”
“Ambrose’s lover died.”
Lance assumed that Sister Miriam’s use of her Great-grandfather’s first name was to imply removal of her family tie to a part of his life that she didn’t approve of. Understandably she has every right to her point of view.
“What was his name and how did he die?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really.”
Sister Miriam let go of Lance’s hand. She took from her skirt pocket a piece of paper, and with both hands unfolded it to its A4 size. She laid it flat on her knee. Lance looked at it. It was a family tree running down from her Great-great-grandfather to herself, and was in printed form for ease of reading.
“Impressive,” said Lance with a twang that cried his pain that he couldn’t do the same for his blood line.
“If you look here,” Sister Miriam said, pointing. “He married at age thirty-eight, and my Grandfather was born when he was forty.”
“Yes, I know that,” Lance said. “And he left for America after twenty-three years of marriage when his son was twenty-one—why?”
“His marriage was a sham, he’s gay remember. His son loathed him.”
“I see,” Lance said, feeling pity.
“Mr. Green is my Great-grandfather, Lance. I’ve researched him.” She then unfolded another piece of A4 paper. This one was handwritten. It read:
Mr. Green’s resurrections:
He died in 1929 age 70.
He was raised in 1974 after 45 years in the darkness. Technically he looks 70.
He died again in 1979. He was here for five years. Technically he is now 75.
He was raised again in 1998. Technically he is still 75.
He died again in 2013. He was here for fifteen years. Technically he is now 90.
He was raised again, almost straight a way.
He says he is The Messenger for The Sleeping.
Lance studied the dates.
’74 was when he first met the old man and ’79 sounded about right for him dying. Lance recollected he was about ten at the time. 1998 stood out bolder than anything else. He thought about Claire. He knew why Mr. Green was here. But did Mr. Green’s Great-granddaughter know? He believed she did.
“What has he told you, Lance?” Sister Miriam said wryly.
“Why do you ask what you already know?”
Sister Miriam smiled.
“Can you stop him?” Lance asked.
“Are you suggesting exorcism?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Lance said truthfully. “Have you ever seen The Sleeping?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“I’ve read about them.”
“Yes, of course… and was that in ‘The Room of Truth’?” Lance dared to mention.
Sister Miriam dropped her smile. Her lips thinned and her eyes blackened. She took hold of his hand again, squeezed it gently, and then let go.
She stood up letting the two A4’s fall to the ground. “Goodbye, Lance. I know we will see each other again,” she said.
Time fluttered again—in the next moment, Lance sat alone and Sister Miriam was walking away. He picked up the two pieces of paper, folded them, and put them in his pocket.
Sister Miriam’s sudden change towards him told him that the hidden room existed. And why shouldn’t it? As far as Mr. Green was concerned, he hadn’t lied about anything—in fact, he was candid about everything.
Lance struggled with the truth of that. A secret is a secret. But if she had verbally admitted about the room, then what could she have told me about The Sleeping?
Thirty minutes later and he was in his car. He started to drive to Flat 2 of No. 17 St Patrick Crescent, but he changed his mind and headed for No. 113 Padstow Avenue instead.
Katherine heard the car come onto the drive. Lance’s arrival in the living room was greeted with a slap to his face. It stung. He bit his lip to offset the pain, and to stop himself doing anything foolish—like hitting back. Katherine slapped him again.
“Is that your new way of greeting?” Lance said, rubbing away the sting. “I’d much prefer a kiss.”
“You’re not getting one.”
“I thought not. Still cross?”
“Damn right I am.”
Lance turned and left the room. Katherine was fuming at this. She sat and tried to calm down. He walks in after a week away and expects… what does he expect?
There was a lot of noise coming from above Katherine’s head. It was as if an elephant was in the loft. When it stopped, Lance came back into the living room. He was carrying something small.
Katherine looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“I think we have a problem,” Lance said.
“I know. He lives next door.”
There was a long silence.
“I think you should take this—it used to reside in the right-hand drawer of my office desk,” Lance said, and handed over a shoebox.
Katherine took it and lifted its lid. What she saw frightened her—for there was something that took life, and she knew whose life it had taken. It was a Colt M1903 Pocket Hammerless.
“Promise me that you will keep it with you at all times. Be careful—it’s loaded,” Lance said.
“I promise, but haven’t we another problem?”
“Yes. But I don’t know how to deal with that one just yet. If I don’t do something about the first problem then there will be no second problem to sort out.” It sounded confusing but it was correct. Fix one, then fix another or let the first eradicate the second. He knew what he had to do—what he’d always done—to keep on fighting.
Katherine put down the shoebox.
There was another long silence.
“I saw Sister Miriam today,” Lance said. “She confirmed things—she couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.” He sighed, and for a moment said nothing. Then he remembered. He took from his pocket the pieces of paper Sister Miriam had dropped. “She’d made a family tree and made dates regarding his deaths and resurrections. I can’t imagine her lying, can you?” He handed over the pieces of paper. “There’s something else…”
Katherine looked up at him with frightened eyes.
“Mr. Green’s gay.” He said it as if it mattered, which in all honesty, it didn’t.
Katherine gave a sigh that said she couldn’t care less about the old goat. She put the papers next to the shoebox. “Am I losing you?” she said as her anxiety began to climb again.
Lance took Katherine’s hand. He gently led her up the stairs and into their bedroom. There he kissed her. She didn’t resist. He caressed her breasts. She didn’t resist. Passion took Katherine over. Love-making lasted three hours.
It was late when Lance left. Katherine hadn’t wanted him to go, but as he’d explained: ‘The further he was away from The Messenger next-door, the safer they both were’. She hadn’t agreed—he was pig-headed in his decision.
It was even later when Lance climbed into bed. He was tired to the point where as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. He slept like a baby.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Perry Parkinson died at 4.00 in the morning. Death can be as abrupt as that. The car he was driving had overturned when taking a bend in the road. Perry was barely conscious when the police arrived. He mumbled that he felt no pain and fretted about his passenger.
Perry described his passenger as being over six-foot, very pale-faced and wearing something black with a hood. He recollected, with some difficulty, that his passenger had suddenly grabbed the wheel. When the paramedics arrived, Perry was dead. His spine had been crushed. No passenger was found in the car or anywhere in the vicinity of the car.
Perry’s wife was taking the news in a shocked state. It was 6.30 in the morning. She had absolutely no knowledge of her husband leaving during the night and couldn’t understand where he was going and with whom. The only absolute fact she did know, was that he wouldn’t be doing it again.
The phone rang as Katherine was just about to lock the door and make for work. She hated Monday mornings. She took the call and responded in apologetic shock. She put the phone down and thought about what she’d asked Pee-Pee to do. She questioned her reasons for getting him involved—she had no doubt he was dead because of that. She wondered what he’d found out.
She sat on a kitchen chair for an hour, with the Colt M1903 Pocket Hammerless held tightly in her hand. The hour passed like a minute. During that fleeting time, she read the two A4’s that Lance had left, and understood that Pee-Pee had been on a fool’s errand. And it was she who had been the fool. She decided it was time to eradicate the problem herself. Consulting Lance would be futile—he would talk her out of it, for sure.
At 9.30 a.m. Katherine marched next door and knocked on Mr. Green’s front door. Her face was ashen, yet determined.
Mr. Green answered the door with a smile.
“Good morning, Katherine,” he said.
He didn’t say another word. Katherine pointed the gun at the mouth of a bent-double old man.
“Perform oral sex on this, you sick bastard,” she spat.
Mr. Green twisted his smile, nodded and opened his mouth. His face suddenly contorted. He wrapped his arms about his body and fell into a heap.
Katherine just stood and watched Mr. Green’s life disappear. She sighed in relief as the old man exhaled. She kicked him hard—he was dead.
“Let’s go into your living room shall we?” Katherine mocked, as she dragged Mr. Green’s body. She left him in the middle of the floor and returned to the front door. She stood there for a few seconds and listened—nothing. She closed the door and returned to her corpse. Sitting in a chair, she looked at the pitiful sight lying sideways, in its foetal position. She imagined that’s how he must have slept. It would have been impossible for him to sleep in any other way, other than sitting up—the poor bastard.
Sitting there with a dead man at your feet and with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company is not the best situation to be in, especially when a gun is still in your hand. Realisation of the situation, sooner or later, will kick in.
Katherine’s mind was of the assumption that Mr. Green had died of a heart attack. And indeed, that’s what it had looked like. But if she had thought seriously about what she had just witnessed, she would have realised that a man that is already dead cannot die from such things as heart failure—it’s simply impossible. It was like someone had just switched him off, and for reasons only they knew.
If she left now he would probably be a rotting cadaver before anyone found him. Who was there to find him?
“Bye, Ambrose,” she said, as she started walking away.
She got no further than the door when she heard his voice.
“I hate the darkness.”
Katherine turned back into the room. Mr. Green had manoeuvred himself into a seated position. He was cradling his side from where Katherine had kicked him.
“Help me to a chair,” he said coldly.
Mr. Green had been dead for only twenty minutes. Katherine didn’t know why she hadn’t run. She did as he bade. Soon they were facing each other.
And so it was that a woman with a gun and a living-dead talked.
“You just died.”
“That’s right—first time in 1929…”
“And then again in 1979…”
“Yes, and twice this year.”
“Can’t you stay dead?”
“It doesn’t seem so.”
Katherine didn’t think when she asked the next question—she hadn’t been thinking all morning.
“Did you kill Perry?”
“I didn’t. But The Sleeping did.”
“Why?”
“I don’t answer for them, I just answer to them. And if you saw where they keep me when I’m with them, then you would be just like me.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
His explanation of the darkness made not one iota of sense to Katherine. Trying to get her to imagine nothing wasn’t easy. Saying that all her soulless body would have, would be the thoughts in her head, also didn’t register.
“Try this,” he said. “Again, you are in a universe of absolute nothing. Time doesn’t exist. All you have is thought. Imagine now after an insane amount of time searching—time is only relevant in your head—that you find your soul. Then the keepers of your soul say to you ‘Would you like it back, so you can be with the one you love for all eternity’. You would do anything they asked, wouldn’t you?”
Katherine sat in silence and closed her eyes. She imagined—she thought of Claire.
“I would do anything,” she said.
Mr. Green nodded. There was nothing more at that moment to be said.
Katherine returned home and sat in a disorientated state. The Colt M1903 Pocket Hammerless was still held tightly in her hand. It took her a good few seconds to prize it away—a finger at a time—and put it in her bag that was hung casually over her neck and shoulder.
Everything she had been told struggled to make sense. In her head there was no such thing as an unwanted child—her Lance was wanted. Ghosts didn’t exist. The Sleeping didn’t exist. Heaven was somewhere and Hell was on Earth. Only one person had risen from the dead, and that took some believing. And yet, if she was to believe in Mr. Green—which was becoming more likely—then she really would do anything to be with Claire. Her childhood attendance at Sunday school never gave a guarantee that she was even going to go to Heaven. She understood that her job bordered on the ethical. In her early days, she found it difficult to represent someone she believed to be guilty. Then it became easier to become impartial and let the judge or jury decide. Personal thought was a lawyer’s noose. She would, one day, be judged on all that she’d done.
I’m as guilty as Hell, she thought.
Katherine finally left for work. The bag containing the gun went with her. She made a decision about her living dead neighbour; it was to avoid him at all costs.
Weeks passed without incident of Mr. Green or The Sleeping. December started cold and wet. The wind blew like God was angry. Sister Miriam still fed the pigeons.
Katherine had taken things into her own hands and e-mailed the Sisters of Hope Convent, in the hope that Sister Miriam could help. Sister Miriam answered the e-mail and there began a series of correspondences.
In Katherine’s e-mails she told everything regarding Mr. Green’s introduction, and of the recent incident when darkness took him and returned him. In return, she had learnt why Mr. Green had finally made such a close and revealing contact—it wasn’t that he was running out of time. Lance’s barrier was down. James had at last come home. Lance’s hardened shell was now as weak as when he was born. He was alone and exposed. The predators had finally convinced their prey of its calling. Sister Miriam’s closing e-mail was one of hope. She asked for belief in the positivity of what she was about to do, and not to breathe a word of anything that had recently happened to Lance. She would be in touch, shortly.
Lance was still staying at Flat 2 of No. 17 St Patrick Crescent. Not once had he asked Imogen to stay over. He kept in touch with Katherine by e-mails.
Imogen understood that her relationship with Lance probably wouldn’t last. She knew her lover still loved his wife. But while the offer of sex was on the table—or so to speak—she wasn’t going to refuse it. She was being a bad girl and liked it. Sometimes she only wanted to please Lance. She loved to see him in only his silk boxer shorts, working his hands as Rocky did. Seeing him sweat as his muscles stiffened, turned her on. It was with a fervent hand that she would pleasure him, while he was in a state of high adrenaline.
She broke off her relationship with Stephanie. The excuse was that she wasn’t 100 per cent ready to pledge her love. That was all true enough. Imogen was clever, but when it came to percentages, she hadn’t a clue on proportions—only that Lance was winning, because he had a bigger proportion. Stephanie didn’t argue. Instead she quickly found a new lover who modelled for her. She was tall—her legs went on forever—and went by her modelling name of Sylvie Verlaine. Sylvie looked as a Snow Queen from Narnia should look—strangely beautiful with deep-green eyes and long silvery-blonde hair. She was androgynous in her appearance. Unfortunately she had all the personality of a backward donkey—which made her appealingly child-like—but she was ravenous when it came to being in the bedroom with another woman, which was all Stephanie wanted. Her intention was to make Imogen just as green-eyed.
