Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“The worst is over now,” she said to the crowd of survivors. “We’re here to get you out of this mess.”

They all cried out in relief or simple joy. Many hugged one another. Several came forward to shake me by the hand, smiling widely as my hand remained an ordinary, everyday hand. But a lot of them still looked shocked, hanging on by only their mental fingernails, not quite daring to believe the nightmare could finally be over. A spokesman came forward, a bluff, hearty type in a battered tweed suit. He smiled at Molly and me and shook our hands, the beginnings of hope in his eyes.

“I’m Geoffrey Earl, local vicar. Good to see you! Welcome to the Old Market Hall. You really are very welcome, oh, yes! We are the last survivors of . . . whatever it is that’s happened here.”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Eddie Drood; this is Molly Metcalf; we’re the rescue party.”

“I wasn’t sure there’d be one,” said the vicar. “Do you know what’s happened here?”

“Tell us the truth! Are we in Hell?” said a large, red-faced woman who’d pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She looked like she’d been crying a lot.

“No,” Molly said immediately. “You’re all still in the land of the living. So to speak. What you see out there is . . . local conditions. Outside the town, everything is still as it should be. The world goes on as it always has. We were rather hoping you could tell us what happened here.”

The vicar shook his head. “It was just another day; we were in here planning the next harvest Sunday, and then . . . we heard this great sound outside, and when we went to the windows to look, we found the world had gone mad.”

“What kind of sound?” I said.

“A great scream,” said the vicar. “As though something had wounded the world. A few of us went outside to see what was going on; we saw what happened to them through the windows. None of us dared leave after that. We stuck close together. Praying. Waiting to be rescued. Hoping to be rescued . . . We were beginning to think we’d been forgotten. Can you tell us anything about what’s happened?”

“We believe this town was made the target of some appalling new weapon,” I said carefully. “Terrorists. We’re still working on the details. Do you have any idea why you survived, when so many didn’t? Why this building is . . . protected?”

“We believe it to be God’s will,” the vicar said steadily. “We all have faith in Him.”

Molly looked like she was about to say something unwise, so I quickly cut in. “As good an answer as any, I suppose.”

“Did you encounter any other . . . survivors, on your way here?” said the vicar, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re all that’s left.”

“Dear God,” said the red-faced woman. “Everyone’s gone? Everyone?”

“Hush, Margaret,” said the vicar. “Are you sure, Mr. Drood? There couldn’t be another refuge like this somewhere else?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked around the hall. “There’s some kind of protection operating here. . . .”

“And a pretty damned powerful one, at that,” said Molly.

“Don’t use such language here!” said Margaret. Molly looked at her, and Margaret faded back into the crowd. Molly looked slowly round the hall, and people gave way before her. She stopped abruptly, bent over and stared hard at the floor.

“Got it!” she said. “I can See it! There’s an object of power, really old and incredibly powerful, laid down under the floorboards. Eddie, we need to take a close look at it.”

“I really don’t think we should disturb it,” the vicar said quickly. “We are protected here; we can all feel it.”

“It’s got to be done,” I said. “We need to know what’s kept the madness out of here, in case this happens somewhere else.”

“Of course,” said the vicar. “I’m sorry. We’re all a bit . . . shellshocked. Do what you have to.”

The crowd started to mutter, and a few protested, so I put on my armour again, and they all went very quiet. I flexed my golden arms, and some of the crowd gasped, and said prayers, and even crossed themselves. I moved over to where Molly indicated, and then smashed a hole through the floorboards with one golden fist. The old wood cracked and splintered as my fist drove through, and my arm followed it down as far as the elbow. I yanked my hand back, and that part of the floor exploded outwards, leaving a jagged great hole. And there, lying revealed in the dark earth, was a single stone tablet, some four feet long by three. I armoured down and hauled it up into the light, and then laid it carefully on a nearby table. Molly was immediately there by my side, crowding in for a good look. The vicar moved diffidently in on my other side. The tablet was covered with long lines of writing in half a dozen languages, carved deep into the surface of the stone.

“Do something, Vicar!” said a familiar voice. “Make them put it back! You’re putting all our lives at risk!”

“Hush, Margaret!” said the vicar.

“I will not hush! I have a right to be heard!”

“We’re here to help,” I said.

“But who are you?” said Margaret, pushing her way to the front of the crowd again. She glared at me, and especially at Molly. “We don’t know you! You’re not from around here. And that metal suit of yours isn’t natural! You walked through Hell to get here, and expect us to believe that you emerged untouched? No. You’re part of the Devil’s work. You’re here to give us false hopes, and then steal our only protection!” She drew herself up and looked around her for support. “I say we take the stone back from them, and then throw them out, back into the Hell they came from!”

“Like to see you try,” said Molly.

“We can get you out of here,” I said, in my most reasonable voice. “Anyone else want to shove your only hope for an escape out the door, and hope someone else will turn up to rescue you?”

There was a bit of muttering, but that was all. Margaret realised she was on her own and shut up, still glaring daggers at Molly and me.

“We’ve all been under a lot of strain,” said the vicar.

“Understood,” I said. “Hang on a bit longer. It’s almost over.”

“Can we please concentrate on these writings?” said Molly. “Before the natives start getting restless again?”

There were dozens of lines of writing, still perfectly clear after who knew how many years buried in the earth. The stone itself could have been any age, but there was something about it that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Somehow I knew this stone was ancient. . . .

“Latin,” said Molly. “Greek, old but not classical, and I’m pretty sure that . . . is Aramaic.”

“That’s a very significant combination of languages,” I said. “Put them all together and they suggest Roman Britain. Some two thousand years ago.”

“Can you read any of this?” said Molly. “I can probably bluff my way through the Latin, but the rest . . .”

“This is another of those occasions when I really wish I’d paid more attention at school,” I said.

“So you can’t read it either,” said Molly. “Typical.”

“Perhaps I can help,” the vicar said diffidently. “It’s been a long time since I studied ancient languages at Cambridge, but . . .”

“Who said the age of miracles is over?” said Molly.

The vicar smiled at her. “Get us all out of here and I’ll look it up for you. Now, then . . . Yes. Yes. Most of this is pretty obscure, but one name stands out. Joseph of Arimathea. Well, bless me. . . .”

“‘And did those feet in ancient times . . .’” I murmured. “The man who was supposed to have brought Jesus to visit Britain, during his gap year. But why would he have placed such a powerful protection stone here? Did he know something bad would happen, in this place, eventually?”