Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘It’s Saint Michael’s,’ Anselm declared. ‘Well,’ he stopped to allow a legless beggar crawling on wooden stumps to cross the runnel, ‘it would be, wouldn’t it?’ They hurried on.

‘Sir Miles and I were to meet Sir William Higden,’ Anselm explained, ‘about a possible second exorcism. Our good merchant, however, wants the entire building torn down. I cannot truly fault him on that. We were to adjourn to the church. Simon the sexton was instructed to meet us there with the keys but we cannot find him or gain entrance.’

‘Why did you come for me?’ Stephen asked, fearful that today he would not meet Alice in their secret bower.

‘I am sorry.’ Anselm paused to cough. Stephen caught the bloody flurry on the rag in his master’s hand. Anselm swiftly pushed it back. ‘Enough of that!’ He smiled at Stephen, grasping him by the arm. ‘Here we are!’

They reached the lychgate guarded by Cutwolf and his coven. ‘No joy yet!’ the henchman declared sombrely.

The two Carmelites entered the cemetery. The morning air was cool and crisp, and fleecy clouds streaked the blue sky with white wisps. The sun was strong, yet the light and warmth failed to bring any life to that dismal place. The sprouting weeds and the long, wild grass had grown even higher, masking the tombstones and other monuments of the dead. Before them loomed the sombre, craggy mass of the church with its dark tower and slated roof. Figures moved between the steps leading up to the main entrance and the corpse door to the side of the church. Abruptly a crow called, sharp and strident. Stephen glanced up and the vision descended. A hideous scream shrilled, while the deepest shadows raced swiftly through the long grass of the cemetery. These abruptly stopped. Eyes, red as blood, peered out between black weed stalks. The shapes shifted, fast and fleeting like some night swallow. These wraiths skimmed the bramble tops, turned and vanished.

‘See the night of the deep ploughing!’ a wheedling voice mocked.

‘Close fast like a trap!’ another answered. Stephen stumbled. He glanced down in horror at the white, claw-like hands creeping out from the undergrowth, fingernails long as talons and caked with dirt. ‘Give mercy!’ a soft voice whispered. ‘Give mercy. Have pity on the surprised, unprepared dead.’

‘ Jesu Miserere ,’ Stephen replied. ‘Jesus, have mercy.’

‘You are well?’

Stephen glanced up. For some strange reason he had crouched down as if to clean soil from his boots. He stared up at a smiling but haggard-looking Beauchamp.

‘I am well.’ Stephen rose to his feet. Anselm had gone ahead, climbing the steps and pulling at the great iron ring on the main door of the church.

‘We cannot get in.’ Sir William Higden, followed by Smollat, Almaric and Gascelyn, came around the corner. He nodded briefly at Stephen. ‘The corpse door is locked. We are tired of hammering. Is Simon asleep, drunk? We need him — we need his key.’ The merchant knight’s face was flushed and petulant, eyes glittering, lips pursed. A hard man, Stephen reflected, insistent on having his own way. Almaric the curate looked sleepy-eyed, rather vacuous. Gascelyn, as unkempt as ever, kept playing with his dagger hilt, staring back over the cemetery as if searching for a glimpse of that eerie death house. Parson Smollat looked and acted as if he was deep in his cups, unshaven, red-eyed, not too steady on his feet.

‘Let’s force the door!’ Gascelyn exclaimed.

‘The corpse door is heavy,’ Almaric retorted. ‘The sacristy door would be easier.’ A brief discussion ensued and the decision was made. A moss-encrusted log was hauled from beneath one of the ancient yew trees, the branches of which hung down like the bars of a cage. They moved to the narrow sacristy door. Stephen stood back and watched. Cutwolf and the others hurried to help. Sir Miles Beauchamp, wiping his hands, once more tried to force the door.

‘It is locked and bolted,’ Almaric confirmed. ‘Brother Anselm, you have tried the corpse door and the main entrance? Simon must have locked himself in.’

‘Begin!’ Sir William shouted, drawing his sword as if besieging an enemy castle. The group of men grasping the log drove its blunt end into the door, aiming for the lock. The door shuddered but held. Again they tried, stopped, rubbed their hands with spittle, grasped the log and returned to the assault, moving their aim from the lock to the thick leather hinges embedded deep in the lintel. At last the ancient wood began to buckle, splinter and crack. The top hinge yielded first, snapping back, followed by the second. The door was pushed open.

‘Wits sharp, pray fervently,’ Anselm whispered to Stephen as they followed Beauchamp into the gloomy sacristy. ‘Check the door!’ Anselm hissed. Stephen did so. The bolts were badly buckled, while the key hung twisted in the lock. The sacristy was musty; cobwebs stretched across the corners. They hurried through into the sanctuary. A cold breeze swept Stephen’s face, bringing the bloody stench of the Shambles.

‘Welcome.’ The muffled voice seemed to come from his left. ‘Welcome to the banquet of Cain, the fruit of his loins.’

‘Master Simon,’ Parson Smollat called from the top of the sanctuary steps. ‘Master Simon, where are you?’

They went down the steps and began their search. ‘Here!’ Gascelyn called from a darkened transept, and they hurried over. The sexton lay in a wide, congealing puddle of his own blood, turned on his back, eyes staring up, the savage cut across his throat gaping like a second mouth. His sprawled arms were outstretched, his own dagger grasped in his right hand. Stephen stifled his cries as the others exclaimed at the horror lying there. Anselm demanded some sacking be brought from the church tower. He placed this around the corpse and immediately administered the last rites, whispering hoarsely the words of deliverance followed by the prayers for the dead. Parson Smollat was shaking so much Gascelyn had to take him to sit on the sanctuary steps.

Beauchamp, aided by Sir William and Almaric, immediately searched the church, going into every nook and cranny, but Stephen knew it was futile. This place was a barren wasteland peopled by restless ghosts now clustering hungrily around them. Something crept across Stephen’s booted feet. He glanced down at the moving shadow trailing like black smoke. Tendrils of wet hair swept the side of his face. Cold fingers pressed against his brow. Anselm was still intoning the prayers for the dead. The sacking he knelt on squelched blood which began to bubble. Stephen, mouth dry, had to step away. He flinched at the disfigured, twisted faces drifting out of the gloomy transept: pale and thin, eyes glaring madly, jowls twisted in anger. He glanced over his shoulder. Gascelyn had struck a tinder; he was lighting the torches as well as different candles. Parson Smollat was blubbering like a child, shoulders shaking. Anselm’s voice rose. ‘I command you, Michael Archangel and all the heavenly hosts, to go and meet him.’

‘Ours in life, ours in death!’ a voice snarled in reply.

‘I command you,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Begone to your proper place and stay there. Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘kneel, pray!’ The novice did so, yet all he could think about was Alice, of sitting beside her in that rose-garlanded bower with young Marisa spying on them from the brambles. He prayed but he could only think about them as the cold breeze returned with its offensive stench.

‘Remove the corpse,’ Anselm ordered, getting to his feet. ‘Let us leave here swiftly. This is no longer a place for God or man.’ Anselm swept by Stephen, tapping him on the shoulder as a sign to follow. The exorcist hurried up the sanctuary steps, pausing to deal with a coughing fit which bent him double. Stephen again glimpsed the red specks on the linen cloth but Anselm waved a hand and, taking a deep breath, straightened up. He walked across the sanctuary, took a stool, stood on it and unhooked the silver pyx. He removed the round white host and reverently ate it. He stood for a while, hands clasped, murmuring the Eucharistic prayer, ‘May the body of Christ be to my salvation, not to my damnation’, followed by the ‘ Anima Christi ’ poem.