23
A blinding pain as Father Mark’s head cracked into my face—I reeled away, clutching my nose. Hot wetness spilled over my fingers. Staggering back against the wall, I watched him, as the door flew open and Bee and Snail rushed in.
I held out a hand quickly, my other hand groping in my pocket. “It’s okay, only a nosebleed. Just need a tissue.”
Bee was not reassured, emotion darkening his deep brown skin even further. “For Pete’s sake, Margo, you must be more careful! Or you won’t be allowed in at all!”
“It’s all right, Bee. Please, you two, go.” I’d been watching Father Mark’s head thrash from side to side, now it lay still on the pillows, turned away from us. Snail and Bee went back outside, with obvious reluctance. I approached the side of the bed, tissue clamped to my nose—keeping my distance.
Father Mark’s cheeks were wet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry… For…for everything…”
Father Mark, crying? It was horrible.
Why shouldn’t he cry? whispered the voice. You still can’t even open your chart book without breaking down.
I mentally shoved the voice aside and said gently, “It’s only a nosebleed.”
“Only a nosebleed?” He looked at me, his eyes tortured. “If you hadn’t moved, your nasal bone would be in your brain right now!”
And I’d be dead. He didn’t need to add that, I could see it in his eyes. I swallowed. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Father Mark. That was terribly careless of me.”
He shook his head once more, eyes groggy as the drugs sucked at him. “Africa? I should just tell our quiet friend about your poor baby and bare my throat.”
I frowned. How would Lucas react to the news that Father Mark had inadvertently caused the death of a friend’s child? Anger…or considerable sympathy?
“You might just get a hug instead,” I told Father Mark.
Sleep took him.
Still frowning, I touched my nose gingerly and swallowed again. How safe would I feel with Father Mark loose, even a continent away?
Lucas’s baptism was to be included in the evening Mass. Nice and quiet. Nose tended with an icepack and face washed, wearing the best of my tiny selection of skirts and tops, I knocked on Lucas’s door at quarter to six. He opened the door after only a moment, looking very neat, even for him. But still looking at me as though he was just waiting for what’d been promised to be snatched away.
Until his eyes narrowed. “What happened to your nose?”
“It got a bit of a knock,” I said dismissively. “But it’s fine. And no, it wasn’t Bane. You look smart, anyway. Where’s your bit of white, though?” His crisp shirt was blue.
“For innocence?” He raised an eyebrow, pain in his eyes.
“It’s traditional for baptisms.” I went over to the white fuchsia and gave him a questioning look. He sighed and nodded, so I pinched off a single white flower, and tucked it into the buttonhole of his pocket. “There. Something white and your plants get to send a representative. Are you ready to go, then?”
He stared at me, almost warily.
Lord help us, he really, really didn’t think it was going to happen, did he? I took his hand. “Do you trust me, Lucas?”
He nodded, but…I put my arms around him and gave him a big hug, because I’d noticed he was more easily convinced by physical contact—harder to lie with your body, I s’pose. He was tall enough his flower survived unscathed.
“Come on.” I drew him gently after me.
“Mr. Everington has a friend who is unfortunately unable to be here tonight and so has asked if he might be present through the homily.” That’s what Pope Cornelius had said when he went up to the lectern, displaying a piece of paper. “So I must admit to a slight feeling of déjà vu, but these are Father Mark Tarrow’s words, not my own.”
Lucas still looked as though he’d been hit between the eyes with a cricket bat. With his conviction of his own worthlessness, clearly it hadn’t occurred to him that the compassion he’d shown towards Father Mark might’ve earned him one more friend than just me.
It was even distracting him from all the potted fuchsias at the foot of the altar. Ranulph, the kindly head gardener, had outdone himself.
Most people would take it only as a nice touch, but Lucas had asked me once what God looked like, and I’d explained that we couldn’t possibly comprehend it, but while understanding that, everyone had some image which represented God, an old man with a beard, a pure light, or something they considered as close to perfection as was possible in this world. And Lucas had promptly looked at his purple fuchsia. I’d been amused at first, but really…if fuchsias were his idea of perfection…
Pope Cornelius had now come down from the lectern to stand beside the portable font. “Could the candidate and his chosen godparent, please approach?”
Lucas sat frozen, so I took his hand and tugged; he lurched to his feet and followed me. Amusingly, I was to be the ‘godparent.’
Once I’d got my timid soon-to-be godson to the font, we joined in the Litany of the Saints—or I did—then Pope Cornelius stepped right up to the font and beckoned us closer. I squeezed Lucas’s hand reassuringly, then let go and stepped back, just a little.
“Lucas Everington,” said Pope Cornelius, with a gently encouraging smile that would’ve reassured the most nervous of catechumens. “Do you reject Satan?”
A long moment of silence. Come on, Lucas, I know there’s rather a lot of people here, but you can do it. For this, you can.
“I do.” Just audible.
“Do you reject all his works?”
“I do.” A little louder.
“And all his empty promises?”
“I do.” That was actually quite firm. Lucas knew all about his empty promises.
Pope Cornelius was continuing, “Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth?”
For a moment I could see Uncle Peter on that gurney, speaking those words, moments before the commencement of his execution.
Lucas glanced at me, saw my reassuring smile. “I do,” he said. Quite clearly.
I beamed. He went on with the last two responses, equally firmly, then Pope Cornelius beckoned him to bend over the font and pouring the water on his head, once, twice, thrice, made the sign of the cross there.
“Lucas Everington, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“I’ll, uh, just go back to the apartment with Jon, shall I?” Bane directed a rather unsubtle wink in my direction once Mass had finished, but fortunately Lucas showed no signs of moving from the kneeler, let alone looking up.
“See you there.”
“Jon?” Bane got up from the pew. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.” Jon took Bane in tow—Bane still hated to be adrift in St. Peter’s, though with his newfound confidence elsewhere, he seemed less embarrassed about admitting it. “
I knelt for my post-communion prayers and some serious thanks and praise for Lucas’s acceptance of new life, until finally Lucas stirred and looked up. He’d stopped crying, but still looked dazed. A stunned, happy dazed.
“See,” I said gently.
He blinked. Smiled hesitantly, as though he could hardly remember how. “So you were right. Sorry I didn’t believe you. Are you waiting for me?”
“Take as long as you like, I’m happy.”
“It’s okay. We can go now.”
We headed up the stairs of our block, but when we reached his floor I took his hand and drew him upwards towards my apartment. “Uh-uh, you’re coming up to my place for your party.”
“Party?” He looked horrified.
“A very little one,” I said quickly. “Very, very little. Only people you know. But you’ve got to mark an occasion like this with something. Come on.”
I towed him determinedly upwards, smiling at his resigned mutter of, “Yes, Godmother.”
Since Jon was attending the party primarily as our friend, to help with things, I was a little surprised to find him waiting outside the door of the apartment. A murmur of conversation came from inside, and Jon’s head turned as he strained to identify us. “Mr. Everington?” he said.
Lucas seemed to have forgotten to breathe—no, deliberately hiding from Jon.
“Straight in front of you,” I said helpfully.
“Right. Well, I just wanted to say…congratulations. And…” He bit his lips for a moment. “And…peace be with you.”
He held out his hand.
7 days
“The world thinks some things are unforgiveable. When we remind them that they’re not, they don’t know what to think.”
Fr. Mark Tarrow—quoted on ‘The Impatient Gardener’
“Are you sure about this, Lucas?” I said, as Snail clipped a little microphone to Lucas’s collar. I couldn’t help shooting Eduardo a slightly appealing look.
“You are aware, I trust, Mr. Everington,” obliged Eduardo, “that this is not as safe for you as it was for Margaret? You do not have the same level of public sympathy to protect you.”
Lucas simply shrugged. Then murmured, “Understatement.” But he was determined to go up onto that podium and speak. And this very morning, before he, “lost his nerve,” as he put it. Not that it was assassins he was bothered about—just all the people. He looked pale and strained, and he was breathing too fast.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told him.
“If God can forgive me, I can do this,” he replied.
“I could publish your statement on my blog.”
“People will think you wrote it.”
“Well…are you sure you don’t want to at least take some notes up there with you?”
He shook his head again. “No. They’ll think you wrote them.”
I sighed. He had a point. Supporters of Sorting would be quite happy to believe that the madman was simply reading lines he’d been fed by Margaret Verrall.
“All right, well, I’m going to go up and give you a little intro, then you can make your speech.”
He went even whiter. “Not speech. Can’t. Too many words. Just…a few sentences.”
“Of course. Well…good luck. May the Holy Spirit be on your tongue.”
I went through the gate and mounted the podium with a bit more confidence than last time. With a bare week to go, it would be an extremely foolish EuroOfficial who couldn’t see that assassinating me right now would hand us the vote. Lucas, on the other hand…well, it still wouldn’t look good, would it?
“Thank you for coming along,” I said. A big crowd had gathered, despite, once again, the rather short notice. A mob of press jostled for position at the front. But over to one side… A small knot of people were shouting anti-EGD slogans, holding up photos. Oh no, they were pictures of their children, of dead reAssignees. Could Lucas cope with that?
I struggled not to scowl at them. Lucas was speaking against Sorting and they were still picketing him? Unbelievable!
I’d just have to ignore them and hope Lucas could do the same. “Lucas,” I continued, “Lucas Everington, that is—was, as you probably know, baptized yesterday. And the Holy Spirit is prompting him to say a few words to you all this morning. Just a very few—his torture at the hands of the EuroGov’s Internal Affairs department has left him very nervous of strangers and of crowds, so I leave it to you to imagine how much effort it is taking him to come up here today. Since his words will be so brief, I think it’s also safe to say that he will have chosen them with great care.
“I’ll hand over to him now. Please make him feel welcome.” I managed not to glare at the protesters as I left the platform and looked around. Lucas was peering around the gateway, face more gray than white, by this time. Should I take his hand and lead him to the podium? No, it would look totally like I was putting him up to it. If he couldn’t do it, better I just blame the EuroGov and post what he wanted to say on my blog…
But no. Lucas stepped into view, jaw and shoulders rigid, and walked forward. I gave him an encouraging smile as he passed me and continued on my way back to the gate, the better to emphasize that he was acting of his own free will.
Unicorn hustled me right behind the wall, out of sight, ignoring my protests…but Eduardo promptly handed me a networkAccessor showing live feed from a camera.
Lucas had got up onto the podium and stood, entwined fingers white with the pressure he was putting on them. His head turned slightly from side to side as he eyed the crowd, panic in his eyes. His head jerked as he registered the protesters, and he began to shake slightly. I could tell he was fighting the urge to flee into himself and hide. For a moment, watching him…writhe…I thought he would simply physically flee instead.
Then he closed his eyes tight and grew a little stiller. Praying? With obvious effort and without opening his eyes, he began to speak.
“My name is…Lucas Everington. I was Commandant of Salperton Facility for…more than ten years. In EGD Security for…fifteen years…I am very, very… So sorry…to the parents…” He broke off, chest heaving, a couple of tears running down from his tight-closed eyes. Was he going to break his fingers? Or break down entirely…
Just when I was sure he couldn’t go on, he finally did. “I…I cannot express that…I’m sorry. I just want to say…something about…greed. What you are all fighting, right now, as you…try to decide. Is greed.”
He took another deep breath, “Greed tells us…that once we have what we want…what we’ve convinced ourselves we need…it will be worth…whatever price…we paid to acquire it. But greed is a terrible liar! Some prices are…are always too high. No matter what benefit…need…we pay it for. Greed lies! Don’t choose lies. Or you will be…dead things walking around…like I was…until yesterday. Thank you…”
Eyes opening at last, he bolted from the podium and was almost through the gate before the crowd could even start clapping.
I stretched out on the grass, basking in the sun like a lizard. Lovely. After that stressful start to the morning, we’d brought all the leftover party snacks out into the garden for a picnic brunch, and I’d managed to coax Lucas into joining us—it was the remains of his party, after all, and he looked thoroughly wrung out by the morning’s exertions. He’d settled himself near some flowery shrubs as far away from Jon as possible, but he clearly remembered he was forgiven.
The baptism and the party had given us such a nice—albeit brief—break from the looming vote…no, not thinking about that right now. And we weren’t sitting too close to…no, not thinking about that either. I really should be doing my blog, though… Soon. The time it took to eat up the party food wouldn’t make any difference.
Pushing a bowl of chips over to Lucas, I started feeding some others to Bane, who seemed to find it necessary to suck my fingers regularly and said nothing about coddling. But when the snacks were all gone, he frowned in Lucas’s direction. “Y’know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you—how did you escape from that Detention Facility after your trial?”
“Septic tank,” I said, grinning.
“Not really!” said Bane.
“Yep.”
“But how did you get out of the cell?” Bane persisted.
Lucas sighed—still not keen on long speeches, let alone after this morning!—but he continued, “Well, everything from that time is hazy. I only remember snatches. But I recall enough about the cell to reconstruct how I must have done it.
“I could have simply hot-wired the card scanners,” he went on, “but even if I sauntered along casually would have had to be lucky not to be noticed on the monitors. I suspect not that way. Not when there was a hatch into the sewage downpipe in the wall of my cell.”
“That wouldn’t have been big enough for you, surely?” said Bane.
“Very skinny, even then. And the EGD fit stupidly large pipes. Saves them a lot of time unblocking them, but if they starve a prisoner long enough… I think I had to dislocate my shoulder before getting in. Hurt on and off half-way across Europe.” He flexed it thoughtfully. “Must have reset it afterwards, not very well.”
“So you wriggled down the pipe?”
“Yes. More dangerous than the other way. Not with regards to getting caught, but could easily have got stuck, suffocated or drowned. Not that it mattered.”
“You got the hatch back in place,” I remarked. “There wasn’t a trace of where you’d gone.”
“Or they didn’t want to admit to it,” he said dryly. “They probably figured it out in the end, when they checked the camera footage and found nothing. Anyway, have a dim memory of the septic tank, of trying to climb out with my shoulder hurting, so quite sure that’s how I got outside the compound itself. Then just ran…shambled. Found rock and stuck on that until I found a stream, then stuck in that as long as I could, and times that by a couple of thousand kilometers.”
“Remind me never to try and keep you somewhere you don’t want to be,” murmured Bane.
The snacks were all gone.
Just a few more minutes…