Johnny O'Brien - Day of Deliverance

Angus moaned. “Sorry — I’m lost — this is a complete mindbender.”

“The point is, Angus, much of this time theory is conjecture. However clever the scientists are, we just don’t understand it well enough. We are on the edge of the unknown, but our position is clear: the human race is not some sort of experiment in a petri dish to fiddle around with.”

“Well one thing is for sure,” Joplin said breezily, “we now know much more about what did happen — including the plot to kill the queen.”

“What do you mean, Theo?”

“Well, as you know, the plot already exists in the historical archive; however, it’s practically a footnote. But we know from what we saw at Hampton Court that it was one of the most dramatic of the many plots against Elizabeth in the late sixteenth century. My theory now is that Walsingham suppressed much of the detail, including the death of Lady Sarah.”

“Why?”

“Although unearthing the plot and trapping the assassins so brilliantly at Hampton Court was a triumph for England, and a personal triumph for Walsingham, on reflection he clearly decided that the whole thing was too close for comfort — particularly the narrow escape in the wilderness. The queen could have been killed and the kingdom could have been thrown into turmoil. Walsingham must have considered it much better to perpetuate the image of the Faerie Queene — untouchable, inviolate, supreme — rather than publicise the reality of the plot too enthusiastically.”

“No decapitated heads were sent to Philip II?”

“Far too unsubtle. And remember Elizabeth’s speech in the hall…”

Jack nodded.

“Well, that must have been quietly suppressed too. Later it was re-used, of course. It is now remembered as part of her famous speech at Tilbury, which was delivered more than a year later, actually as the threat of the Armada passed.”

“Elizabeth — the first sultan of spin!” Joplin chortled at his own joke. “She’d do some of our own politicians proud.”

“What happened to Marlowe?”

“A bit of a mystery. We know that the Spanish took him into hiding following the incident in Cambridge. When the plot fell through, there was no evidence for the Spanish to really pin the blame on him. We think Walsingham continued to use him as a spy, but may have finally lost patience a few years later. Marlowe was murdered — a dagger above the right eye — some say it was a drunken brawl, but others believe it was an assassination, as all three of the other men who were with him when he died worked for Walsingham and his brother.”

There was silence for a moment and for some reason the words from Marlowe’s portrait ghosted through Jack’s mind:

What feeds me destroys me.

“One thing, then…” Angus said, “what about a helicopter appearing in the middle of the Armada? I’ve never heard of that before — you’re not telling me that Walsingham hushed that up too.”

Joplin laughed. “Good point. My theory is that there was such confusion during the battle — the smoke, the noise — you saw what it was like — that few eye witnesses recorded the event. Remember, it was only there for a few minutes. Those who did see it, and survived, referred, glassy-eyed, to a ‘fiery monster descending into the sea’ or ‘a lightning bolt from the finger of God’ — all explanations that historians readily put down to the religious hysteria of the time or post-traumatic stress disorder suffered by the witnesses. Remember that many of the Spanish died and actually a lot of the English did too — but after the battle; there was no money to pay for their care. Anyway, the reports that existed were felt to be nonsense and were, rightly, treated as such later on by serious historians.”

“But we know better,” the Rector said as he stood up and pointed to an electronic map on the wall. “We have already dispatched a salvage crew to the English Channel to determine if anything was left of the helicopter wreck at the bottom of the sea, even though four hundred years have passed since it sank. If we can identify bones or teeth in the wreck, it will prove that Pendelshape and whoever else was in that blasted contraption are gone for good — and with them, hopefully the entire Revisionist cause.”

By the time Jack and Angus climbed wearily into Carole Christie’s battered old VW Golf, it was nearly midnight.

“I rang your parents, Angus, to say you would be late and would sleep over with us tonight,” Carole said.

“Thanks, Carole.” Angus slapped his forehead. “Hey! I nearly forgot.”

“What?” Jack said.

“It’s the rugby final tomorrow.”

Jack grinned. “You’re going to walk it after what we’ve been through.”

It was a beautiful spring day. Jack cycled his mountain bike up the old driveway at Cairnfield and then onto the main road that led up the long hill into Soonhope High Street. It was a busy Saturday lunchtime and the world and his wife seemed to be out. Angus was waiting outside Gino’s with a big grin on his face. He saw Jack and waved something in the air. It was the rugby trophy.

“We won!”

“Good stuff — did you score?”

“Just one try.” Angus jerked his head towards the cafe. “Come on — chip butties to celebrate — then I’ve got to head home.”

Gino was delighted to see them. In fact he was so delighted, that he immediately closed the shop and turfed everyone else out, making some excuse about a gas leak.

“You’ve had a big adventure, eh?” he winked at them conspiratorially. “You are both big VIGIL heroes. What can I get you? It’s on the house.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me: double Gino-chino, extra shot, full fat, with caramel and extra cream…” Then Angus and Gino announced in unison, “And don’t forget the cherry.” Gino thought this was absolutely hilarious and his belly wobbled as he laughed uproariously.

“Chip butties too please, Gino.”

Jack and Angus settled into one of the booths and straight away Angus started fiddling with the large plastic tomato-shaped ketchup holder. He squeezed it so the sauce just oozed out of the top, before releasing his grip so that it was sucked back in again with a satisfying squelch.

“That’s disgusting,” Jack said after Angus had squidged the bottle for the third time.

“Sorry,” Angus replied. “Hey, have you still got it? You know, the ring or whatever it was old queenie gave you?

Jack smiled and reached into his pocket. He placed the ring on the table. It glinted up at them.

Angus looked agog. “It’s a whopper. What’s that green thing?”

“Emerald — stupid. That’s the stone. The ring is gold.”

“What do you think it’s worth?”

Jack shrugged. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands…”

“ Awesome . You going to keep it?”

“Of course. It’s mine. Queen Elizabeth I of England gave it to me — the Faerie Queene. I saved her life, her kingdom and the human race… though, granted, you did help,” Jack said, smiling.

Angus just laughed.

“Hey, I brought something else to show you,” Jack said.

“Really weird this… I mean almost as weird as some of the stuff we saw.”

Jack pulled from his bag the large history book that Miss Beattie had loaned him.

“Remember Beattie gave this to me before we went back? It’s got all sorts of pictures and stuff about Queen Elizabeth and the sixteenth century…” Jack thumbed through the pages. “Check that out.”

Jack pointed at the small colour frame at the bottom of one of the pages. It was one he had noticed when he’d first leafed through the book, entitled ‘Elizabethan Troupe’. It was a simple colour plate of a group of actors in various costumes. There was one dressed as a court jester and next to him, in stark contrast, another dressed as a monk. There was a third who looked slightly more important — like a country gentleman with a fine cloak and a neat, pointed beard.