Part 38 (2/2)

'They're near here,' Sarah said. Sounding stubborn, mulish, even to her own ears. But h.e.l.l, she'd come this far. 'I know they are. And you said it yourself, we need Michael. Without him, who's going to listen?'

'But '

'And he's got Dinah.' And he's dangerous, she didn't add. Didn't need to. He's killed people; for all we know, he'll kill her too kill himself, kill her, who could tell, after everything else he'd done?

'Sarah '

'I'm sorry, David. This isn't fair on you. And thanks for your offer, you're a kind man, but I can't drag you into this. It's okay, Zoe.'

'No it isn't.'

'I can manage '

'Shut up.' Zoe opened her door. 'So we're going. Or staying. Whatever. Come on.'

The car rolled forward a couple of feet, and she almost fell out.

'What the f.u.c.k?'

'Did I get your attention?'

'David?'

'Sorry,' he said. He turned to Sarah once more. 'Miss? I'll say it again. You want to go somewhere, I can take you. I don't like leaving you here, the side of the road like this.'

'But '

'It's not for your sake, it's for mine. You know? This way I don't lie awake all night, wondering if you got where you needed to go.'

She was still holding the map, folded over now so the little cross, the dense square of green, looked a hop and a jump away. But why walk when they could ride? He could give them a lift, then drive off: his good deed done.

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure.'

Zoe shut her door again. 'This is what I like. Firm decisions, swiftly taken.'

He held his hand out; Sarah handed him the map. Showed him with a finger: 'It's that church. Or chapel, or whatever it is. I just remembered . . .'

'It's of consuming historical interest,' Zoe finished.

'So we go there,' he said. 'Five minutes. Okay?'

And proved to be good as his word.

Two more things: Howard, who'd worked out where he was, started after point B just as point B started to move . . .

. . . and Amos Crane, who'd been following all this, smiled, as he moved too.

IV.

There was a small wooden door, very old, with fresh splintering around the handle; with iron nails stamped into it like bullets. There were bushes round this door, clawing their way out of the stony ground like an ill.u.s.tration of a parable.

There was a stained-gla.s.s window too; a somewhat Celtic cross. There was no name to the chapel that Sarah could see. Nothing to tell you where you were.

There was a blue 2CV parked lopsided to the back of the building; its rear left wheel an inch or so above the ground, as if its front right had found a ditch.

Sarah stood taking this in while Zoe waved distractedly at the car now heading away from them, reversing up the track through the trees, towards the main road. 'Nice man,' she said.

'Hmm?'

'He didn't have to help us.'

'No.'

She was going to take a few steps forward, push on the door, go right in. Any minute now. That was what she was going to do.

'So what's the story, Sarah? Ten minutes ago, you had no idea where they were.'

'I remembered.'

'You remembered he said he'd meet you here?'

'I remembered he talked about it. Back when he and Tommy Singleton escaped. This is where they hid.'

Zoe took it in. Shook her head. 'Well, if you ask me,' she said, 'it's f.u.c.king spooky,' and she reached into her bag for her gun.

Sarah didn't notice. She was taking those few steps forward, pus.h.i.+ng on the door. Which swung open.

. . . What it reminded her of, those first few seconds, was the chapel in that awful place where she'd first gone looking for Dinah. Arimathea. Here, now, walking into another chapel, she suffered again that sense of old air, of air locked in stone, and the feeling crashed in on her that this was what had become of her life: it had degenerated into a succession of moments, each of which had to be lived through in turn. Brief flashes of memory ignited for her, like sudden views of a bright room: the distant thump of a house collapsing, and sparks flying upwards into a dark sky; a man with blood like a necktie pooling down on to his desk; another with a rope of dental floss he was trying to kill her with . . . And herself, all those years ago, falling from the roof, with lights cartwheeling like a circus attraction. All of that. And all leading to where she was now, in another old, cold chapel, looking for a girl who was a survivor, as she was herself. So far.

There were no benches in the chapel. No altar. No furniture of any kind. Just a bare room with a filthy stone floor, some old cracked windows and naked beams low overhead. And a man sitting against the wall opposite, with a small child in his arms . . . Dinah.

Michael was levelling a gun at her.

That was almost it. Right there. Not a matter of her past life flas.h.i.+ng before her eyes not again more a case of seeing her future, all of it, folding into a single instant, an instant in which he fired the gun, she fell, the world went black . . . None of it happened. Instead he lowered the gun as she stepped out of shadow, raised it again as he saw Zoe who was right behind her then put it down once more. No matter Zoe held a gun. He looked, Sarah thought, so tired so tired, he was maybe half dead himself.

'You came,' he said.

'You forgot your jacket.'

A stupid thing to say, she knew; one of those flippant comments she'd be embarra.s.sed about afterwards, if there was an afterwards. She came forward, his jacket feeling baggy on her shoulders. 'This is a friend of mine.'

Zoe nodded at Michael. She was still holding her gun. Michael simply stared at her, then looked back at Sarah.

Only a matter of hours, after all, but what had he done with them? Killed how many people? And look at him now, holding a small child, who seemed very like she might be sleeping: what did she say to him? What did she say to Dinah?

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