Scott Mariani - The Sacred Sword

The big Israeli frowned at him but didn’t look especially perturbed at the sudden appearance of a complete stranger. He would have been, Ben thought, if he’d known there were people out there ready to kill anyone connected with the sacred sword.

Hillel was about to speak when the waiter burst through the door and began pointing at Ben and rattling off an apologetic stream of Hebrew that was probably along the lines of ‘I tried to stop him. He just shoved past me.’ Hillel listened calmly, then gave Ben a piercing, authoritative stare. ‘This room is for staff only,’ he said in English. ‘Private.’

‘That’s good, Mr Zada,’ Ben said, ‘because I have private business to discuss with you. Alone,’ he added, throwing a sideways glance at the waiter.

Hillel Zada’s frown deepened. He motioned to the waiter and muttered something in Hebrew. The waiter glanced nervously at Ben, then left. ‘Are you selling something?’ Hillel said to Ben when they were alone. ‘I am a busy man.’

Ben got to the point. ‘Simeon Arundel and Fabrice Lalique have been murdered. Wesley might be dead too, or he soon will be. And I think you can tell me why.’

There was a long silence. Hillel’s face dropped. He seemed to weaken momentarily, and had to rest his bulk on a stack of boxes. Ben could see from his shocked expression that this news came as a complete surprise. Hillel had had no idea until that moment of the trouble that had descended on his associates. If anyone was following him with harmful intent, he wasn’t aware of it yet.

After taking a few moments to digest the news, Hillel looked up at Ben. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was a friend of Simeon’s. I need to know what this is about, and exactly what it was you were all into.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Hillel said, still just as suspicious. His English was heavily accented but very correct, and he spoke every word carefully.

‘Let’s not waste time, Mr Zada. I’m talking about the sword. I’ve seen the photograph of you with Simeon, Fabrice and Wesley. I know they came here last year. And I know that other people are in great danger. You may be too.’

Hillel’s expression was stony and full of doubt. ‘Ben Hope. You say you were a friend of Simeon’s?’

‘And of his wife, Michaela,’ Ben said. ‘I was staying with them at their home in England when they were killed.’

‘How did they die?’ the Israeli asked sadly.

‘In an accident that wasn’t, caused by someone who wants the sword.’

Hillel absorbed this gravely, then peered at Ben with renewed suspicion. ‘And why should I believe you were Simeon’s friend? He never mentioned anybody called Ben Hope.’

The storeroom door burst open again. Half expecting it to be more members of staff come to rescue their boss, Ben turned. It was Jude.

‘Were you going to leave me sitting there all day?’ Jude said indignantly.

Hillel’s face darkened at this further intrusion into his privacy — then he did a double-take and peered at Jude with narrowed eyes. ‘I know you,’ he said, pointing. ‘You are Simeon’s boy. He showed me a photograph of you.’ He glanced from Jude to Ben, the suspicion melting away.

‘My father’s dead,’ Jude said. ‘If you know anything that could help us understand why, we’d be very grateful to you, sir.’

‘I truly grieve for your loss,’ Hillel said, clutching Jude’s arm with a big hand. ‘Your father was my friend.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Please forgive my rudeness. Tell me about Fabrice Lalique and Wesley Holland. What has happened to them all?’

It was the first time Ben had known the American’s surname. ‘Lalique was thrown off a bridge near his home in France. It was made to look like suicide. As for Holland, as far as I know he’s somewhere in America, running for his life.’

‘But how is it possible that a sword could bring such trouble?’ Hillel asked.

‘Mr Zada, the clock is ticking. The more I know about this thing, where it came from, what it is and who wants it so badly, the easier it’ll be for me to find these people before it’s too late. Right now I’m in the dark. You need to tell me everything.’

‘Are you a detective?’

‘I’m just someone who wants to help,’ Ben said. ‘And I need yours.’

Hillel nodded solemnly. ‘It will take a long time and I have a family engagement this evening.’ He reached inside his coat, slipped out a business card and handed it to Ben. ‘Meet me tomorrow morning at eight, at my home. And I promise you, you will hear the whole story.’

‘I want words with you, Ezekiel.’

When his father said ‘I want words with you,’ there was always bound to be trouble. And trouble meant pain. The boy readied himself. He could handle pain. He’d handled it before. Nothing his father could do to him physically hurt him as much as the sound of his own name. Ezekiel Penrose Lucas. A cruel affliction that had tormented him every day of his young life.

Ezekiel Squeakiel, his classmates called him, in mockery of his still-unbroken voice that had the habit of shooting up an octave when he was nervous, which was much of the time. ‘Ezekiel Squeakiel!’

‘You were fidgeting in church again today,’ his father pronounced in the solemn tone of a judge about to deal out a death sentence.

‘I was not fidgeting,’ the boy replied hotly.

‘You may think you can lie to me, but God sees everything. And so did Mrs Woods. She was horrified.’

‘Mrs Woods is a dirty old cockroach!’ Penrose screamed at his father. ‘I hate her and I wish she was dead!’

‘Hell rip and roast you for a bastard, boy!’ his father shouted back, turning dark red. With a terrible slowness, he reached behind him and opened the hated cupboard door, and the speech began. ‘Those who are tainted shall drink the wine of the wrath of God…’ he intoned as he took the belt from the jar of vinegar. He cracked it once, and a spatter of the foul-smelling liquid hit the wall. He beckoned to the boy. It was time for the punishment.

‘… and they shall be tormented by fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels…’

Whack. Whack. The belt falling and rising. The sharp lash of leather against bare buttocks.

Penrose’s face streamed with tears. He would not scream.

‘… and in the presence of the Lamb.’

He bit so hard on his lip to hold it in that he could taste blood in his mouth, but the pain was so strong that he couldn’t stop himself and a wail burst from his throat. ‘Mummy! Make him stop!’

But Mummy would not make him stop. Mummy was in the next room, too terrified to say a word to the tyrant, lest he turn the belt on her, too.

Then it was over, and Penrose could do nothing but whimper in pain and rage and wish his father the most terrible suffering a young boy could dream of.

‘Now get down on your knees and pray to God, that He may show you forgiveness.’

‘I hate God,’ the boy thought. ‘I wish God were dead, too.’

The next day, Penrose sneaked out of the house with something long under his arm, wrapped inside a plastic bag. Still aching from the beating, he made his way furtively up the street towards Mrs Woods’ house, half a mile away. The old cockroach lived alone with her beloved cat. The cat was fifteen or sixteen, had only one eye and was named Thomas O’Malley.

Penrose crouched hidden among the evergreens at the edge of her rambling garden. He slipped the plastic bag away to reveal his air rifle. With murder in his heart he quietly cocked the gun and slipped a. 22 pellet in the breech. And waited, silently.

After a long time, there was a movement in the long grass. It was Thomas O’Malley. Penrose watched and his heart began to beat harder as the old cat moved slowly and stiffly through the garden.