Simon Toyne - Sanctus

There was nothing gentle about the next time he rose from the black depths of sleep. This time it felt as though he was being yanked up by a spike hooked into the base of his skull. He tried to cry out but all that emerged was a strangled mew. He tried shifting his head away from the pain but it wouldn’t move. His heavy eyes struggled open, rolling sluggishly in their sockets as he sought the source of his agony. He caught glimpses of uneven stone walls illuminated by dancing firelight. Saw the outline of sinister-looking contraptions sketched against the darkness. He could not see the cause of his pain, and this, more than anything, lit up a fear inside him that brought him round quicker than iced water.

At last the pain began to subside, and a memory rose up from the fog. He remembered getting into the van, turning to grab his seat belt and feeling a sharp pain in his right leg. He recalled the shocking sight of the syringe, and how he’d reached for it with arms that would not respond. There was nothing else.

He looked down now at the spot where the needle had been, tried to touch it with his hand but his arms wouldn’t move. He tried to look down but his head wouldn’t move either. Instead his eyes rolled down as far as the sockets would allow. He could see his forearms strapped tightly to the arms of some kind of chair. He also saw something else, something utterly surprising and incongruous in the dank setting of the cave. By his right hand was a small table and sitting on it was a laptop with a mobile phone attached by a short cable. He thought for a moment he must be having a surreal dream, but the pain in his head and the trickle of something warm and wet down the back of his neck made it real enough. He tried to move his feet, but they too were bound tight to the chair he sat on. He struggled against his restraints, testing their strength until the sharp point of pain reappeared suddenly in the back of his neck, pressing forward with a terrible insinuation. He tried to arch away from it but the straps across his forehead and throat held him fast. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It pressed on until the torture was so exquisite he thought his spine would snap. He was held there for a few moments, at the pinnacle of his pain, before it gently eased back bringing a tiny but welcome relief.

He heard the scuff of a foot on the floor behind him through the hiss of blood rushing in his head. ‘Who’s there?’ he croaked, failing to keep the crack of fear from his voice.

He felt something tug at his right hand and found it had been loosened. He tried to lift it to rub the back of his neck but a solid clunk jarred it to an almost immediate stop. A thick leather manacle encircled his wrist, connecting it to the arm of the chair by a short chain. He dropped it back down with a clinking of metal, listening out for further movement.

‘I’m a police officer,’ he called into the darkness, wielding the words like a talisman.

The sudden closeness of the voice by his left ear made him whimper with surprise.

‘You have the colouring of a betrayer,’ it said. ‘For was not Judas a redhead?’

Sulley swivelled his eyes left. He could see nothing but dark walls and flickering light.

‘You are in a garrotting chair,’ the voice continued, deep and steady, rumbling out of the darkness close by. ‘One of the chief weapons used to stamp out the cancer of heresy during the Inquisition. It has a purity to it I’m sure you’ll appreciate. There is a broad metal screw positioned in the headrest just below your skull. If I twist it one way. .’ Sulley felt the spike drill back into his neck and gasped in agony ‘. . the screw tightens and you will feel pain. If I turn it the other way. .’ the skewering pressure subsided once more ‘. . you will feel relief. So,’ the voice said, moving in closer. ‘Which is it to be?’

‘What do you want?’ Sulley asked the darkness. ‘I can give you money. Is that what you want?’

‘All I want is your loyalty,’ mumbled the reply. ‘And some information. Please know that bringing you here is not a pleasure but a necessity, brought about by your own actions. We asked for your loyalty. You chose not to give it. You betrayed the Church — and that is a sin.’ The voice moved closer until he could feel the air that carried it whisper across his ear. ‘Would you like to confess your sins now?’

Sulley’s mind hummed with a mixture of pain and indecision. Should he admit he had sold information to others or deny it? If he denied it, he might be hurt until he admitted it anyway. He didn’t want the pain to come back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quickly. ‘I made a mistake. If that’s a sin. . then — please, forgive me.’

‘Raise your right hand,’ the voice commanded.

He lifted it as high as he could before the restraint snapped it to a halt.

‘That chain is called the mea culpa ,’ the dark voice said. ‘It enabled the heretic to sign his confession at the end of his inquisition. Mea culpa means “my fault”. Admitting fault is the first step toward forgiveness. Do you know what the second step is?’

‘No,’ he squeaked, his voice stretched tight between peaks of fear and pain.

‘Atonement. You must perform a righteous act to make amends for your sin.’

Sulley took a few shallow breaths, trying to calm the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, but he understood a deal when it was being offered.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Arkadian flipped his badge as he reached the reception desk.

‘I’m looking for Gabriel Mann,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘Does he work here?’

‘Oh,’ the receptionist gasped, glancing at the badge then back at him with the flustered, guilty reaction of the truly innocent. ‘Yes. Well. . not usually, no. I mean, he’s usually away somewhere or other, but he does work for the charity. Let me find out for you.’

She tapped an extension number into the desk phone and spoke in a low voice. Behind her an elegant wooden staircase curled upwards and brought down sounds of the upstairs offices. The receptionist punched a key and looked over at him.

‘He’s in the Sudan,’ she said. ‘He’s not expected back for a month at least.’ Arkadian nodded, thinking about the fingerprint that had placed him in the city morgue not two hours previously. ‘I can try and get a number for him, if you like,’ she suggested. ‘There’s probably a line into the base camp, or maybe a satellite phone. I was trying to get hold of his mother to see if she’d spoken to him. She runs the charity,’ she explained.

‘Do you have her number?’ Arkadian asked. ‘Or any idea when she might be back?’

‘Of course,’ the woman said, taking a pen and copying a number on to a notepad from a directory sheet in front of her. ‘Here’s her mobile number. I expected her back from the airport by now. I can get her to call you. .’

‘No, it’s OK,’ he said, taking the piece of paper and looking at the name and number written on it. ‘I’ll give her a call. Which airport will she be coming in from?’

‘City. It’s where all our air freight comes in.’

Arkadian nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said. Then he turned and headed out through the heavy glass doors and into the street where the police car was parked and waiting for him.

The Abbot watched the Informer’s trembling hand drift across the laptop, the short chain clinking as he typed in a sequence of remote access codes. The Internet connection through the phone was slow and it took a long few minutes before he finally managed to open the monk’s case file.