Chapter 8

THE ROMANS HAD ESTABLISHED YORK AT THE JUNCTION of the Rivers Foss and Ouse. Later it was occupied by the Vikings and then fortified by William the Conqueror. Its castle walls were the most complete of any city in England. Reaper read about it in a guidebook in the manor house library. The walls did not completely encircle the city and, in ancient times, the rivers and marshland had been added protection. There were four main entrances in the fortifications: Walmgate Bar; Monk Bar; Bootham Bar; and Micklegate Bar, as well as at least four other main access roads into York.

Reaper led two teams. He partnered Sandra, and Jenny went with Tanya. They approached the city from the northeast along Malton Road, past the Holiday Inn and numerous hotels, pubs and guest houses. York had been one of the foremost tourist cities in Britain. As they came closer to the walls, the road became Monkgate and led to Monk Bar, one of the medieval gateways into the city. The central white stone tower had four storeys, arrow slits and an arched entryway beneath. Two other archways were beneath short stretches of castle wall on either side. The walls then disappeared behind more modern buildings that had been built on the short approach road.

Signs indicated that the main archway beneath the tower was a cycle lane. The small arch on the right gave access for pedestrians. The wider arch beneath the wall on the left, had been for vehicles.

They drove around the city: one team going south, the other north, without attempting entry. The limestone walls were still handsome after hundreds of years protecting a centre that was the cradle of two thousand years of history. The Minster towered above them in the northern quarter and Clifford’s Tower was imposing at the southeastern, overlooking the River Ouse.

The teams passed each other and continued their circumnavigation until they met back on Monkgate. They parked the Range Rovers a hundred yards up the road, opposite the Tap and Spile public house. The road began to curve here and they were almost out of sight of the gatehouse. They could see the dead traffic lights at the junction where Monkgate met the road that paralleled the city walls. Further along on their left was the Viceroy of India restaurant.

Both teams confirmed that all gates, bridges and roads into the city were blocked with cars and lorries. Driving in was not possible. Neither, of course, was driving out if anyone needed to make a swift escape. They had a tourist street map of the city but no idea where Ronnie might be held, if he had, indeed been captured, or how many followers Brother Abraham had. Reports suggested any number from thirty to three hundred.

They walked across the road and Reaper studied the entrance through binoculars. People stared back at him from the crenellated castle walls.

‘They’re carrying crossbows,’ he said, in amazement. He refocused. ‘And pikes.’

‘We could go in at night,’ said Tanya. ‘There are plenty of places. They don’t have enough people.’

‘But we don’t know the city and we wouldn’t know where to look for Ronnie,’ said Sandra.

‘The only sensible thing is to go and ask,’ said Reaper. ‘I’m inclined to try diplomacy before anything else.’

‘Who’s going to ask?’ Sandra said.

‘I will. I’ll ask Brother Abraham.’

‘What if he’s as mad as people say?’

‘I’ll humour him.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’

‘If I don’t come back, you’re in charge.’

‘If you don’t come back, I’m coming in. And I won’t be asking permission.’

Reaper put his carbine in the back of the car and shared a look with his three companions.

‘It’s two o’clock. If I’m not back by six, treat them as hostile. I should imagine Brother Abraham will be in the Minster. Be careful. They might send out a raiding party.’

He removed the belt that held his handguns and put them in the back of the car, too.

‘Take care, Reaper,’ Sandra said.

He walked down the middle of the road with his arms wide in the universal gesture that said he was unarmed and wished to parley. When he reached the traffic lights, maybe twenty yards from the barricaded entrance, he stopped and shouted.

‘My name is Reaper! I’m from a settlement near the coast! I’m looking for one of our community, a man called Ronnie Ronaldo! Have you seen him?’

He kept watching the walls. A large woman holding a pike stared back at him from the wall to the left. A figure was sitting behind a low crenellation holding a crossbow that was pointing at him. The bolt was released and he had no time to jump for safety. He had fired a crossbow himself in training and knew the power of the weapon and the damage that could be caused by a steel tipped bolt fired with 150 lbs draw weight travelling at a speed of more than two hundred feet per second. The thought rooted him to the spot in momentary fear and resignation. The bolt hit the road surface by his feet and skipped away and he breathed again.

A voice shouted angrily from the tower, perhaps in reprimand, perhaps at wasting a bolt. Behind him, he heard the click of carbines being readied.

Reaper didn’t move. He didn’t retreat and he didn’t make any gestures that might be construed as provocative. He realised that the day suddenly seemed more crystalline, the air that he breathed seemed sweeter. Being so close to death certainly cleared the head.

‘Is this the way you normally treat guests?’ he shouted.

‘You’re not a guest!’ a voice said. ‘You’re contamination!’

He had been called many things, but contamination was a new description.

‘Can I see Brother Abraham?’

‘Go to the pavement entrance!’

Reaper did as he was told.

Vans blocked both the other entrances beneath the wall. Not singly, but in an untidy clump with no apparent order or reason except to make them impassible to other vehicles. The pedestrian entrance was protected by a chicane of stacked steel beer barrels that looked solid until he reached it and saw he could slip in sideways. A sign on the wall pointed the way to the Richard III museum in the tower.

On the other side, he was confronted by a big man in a monk’s black habit who had a lot of hair and body odour that would incapacitate at twenty paces. Reaper braced himself and tried to breath shallowly through his mouth. The man’s beard was full and unkempt, his hair thick and wild as if he had been struck by lightning.

‘I’m Brother Mark,’ he said.

He wore a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. He was about thirty years of age and bristled with physical strength and an inner belief.

‘I’m Reaper.’

They took each other’s measure for a moment. Brother Mark did not look impressed. Reaper did not offer to shake hands. For one thing, he didn’t think the monk would take it and, for another, he didn’t want to catch anything. If he was contamination, this bloke was probably contagious.

‘This way,’ Brother Mark said, and strode off down the street, legs bare beneath the habit, black Nike training shoes on his feet.

Reaper had half expected them to take his knives from him but they either hadn’t noticed or thought they were of acceptable vintage, seeing as they sported pikes and crossbows. He followed, taking a look up at the wall as he went. The walkway had originally been open but now had a metal railing, erected to stop tourists falling off. The woman who was holding the pike stared at him. She wore a tracksuit and was of uncertain age. A small man in a black sweater and black trousers sat with his back to the wall nursing a crossbow that he had reloaded. He also had a beard and his hair was long but the most striking thing about him was his smile: it was pure evil. Perhaps he had escaped from the Richard III museum.

With their attitude, Reaper couldn’t see tourists returning any time soon.

Brother Mark strode out with long steps and Reaper had to speed up to catch him as they walked along Goodramgate. Coming towards them was a group of four men on bicycles. They wore tracksuits, beards and long hair and carried either longbows or crossbows on their back. Reinforcements, heading to Monk Bar. They passed without looking in his direction. Maybe they were frightened he’d contaminate them.

The street was a mixture of ancient and modern and seemed to get older the further they went. The Minster was to the right but Brother Mark stayed on Goodramgate, which turned to the left: old pubs, betting shops, restaurants, black and white timbered medieval buildings.

A man on horseback rode towards them. He was middle-aged and wore long boots, black velvet trousers and a cloak over a black shirt and a clerical collar. He had a gold cross on a chain around his neck. Brother Mark raised his hand sideways and indicated that Reaper should stay back, out of earshot.

The monk walked to the rider and they conversed for several minutes. Neither seemed happy with the way the discussion went. The man on horseback had a paunch that his posture in the saddle only served to emphasise. He was clean-shaven but had a wart on his chin and a veined nose that indicated a fondness for strong alcohol. Reaper thought this was what Oliver Cromwell might have looked like.

The horseman eventually turned his mount with an angry gesture and rode away, the hooves echoing in the street. They continued walking until Brother Mark turned abruptly right through an arch in a high stone wall and led Reaper into a small enclosed churchyard. A stone path led between patches of long grass and, to the right, a few ancient gravestones leaned with the weight of time. Ahead was a grey church with a red tile roof and a short tower. A sign said this was the Church of the Holy Trinity.

The city they had walked through had been almost empty, but Reaper could imagine that, in the years before the virus, when its narrow streets had bustled with tourists and shoppers, this hidden garden churchyard must have been a haven. Sunshine slanted off the ancient stone of the church and graves. Beyond this small and beautiful place of worship, over the roofs of intervening buildings, could be seen the towers of its grand neighbour, York Minster.

Two men sat on a bench outside the church. They wore tracksuits, like almost everyone else, and had beards and long hair. Incongruously, they carried cricket bats. No ball was in evidence.

‘Wait here,’ said Brother Mark, and left Reaper outside.

Reaper felt as if he had stepped back in time. The men were wearing biblical length hair and the monk had the hygiene of an era before soap. They clearly did not use motor cars nor carry guns, but a crossbow was an effective weapon. As was a cricket bat. He suspected Brother Abraham might not have a total grasp on reality. Mark returned.

‘Brother Abraham will see you,’ he said, and led the way inside.

Whilst walking outdoors, Reaper had managed to stay upwind of the monk’s body odour, but entering the small building together, it was once more overpowering. For a moment, he held his breath but the interior of the church was so beautiful he let it out again. Sunlight burst through stained glass windows to spill warm colours over the untidy confusion of irregular box pews.

They were at the back of a church whose roof was supported by octagonal stone pillars. They were standing at the start of an aisle that led down to a side altar or chapel. A central nave led to the main altar and there was a third aisle on the far side, and yet the whole place was not much bigger than a front room; an Alice in Wonderland church where he wouldn’t have been surprised to meet a white rabbit and a mad March hare. Instead, he met Brother Abraham.

‘Welcome to the city of Godliness,’ he said. He glanced at Reaper’s guide and said, ‘You can wait outside, Brother.’

Mark left the church and closed the door behind him and the air began to clear.

Abraham waved his hand in front of his face to dissipate the smell.

‘He does take it to extremes,’ he said. ‘But he has a good heart. Please, would you come this way?’

He led Reaper down the nearest aisle of uneven stone flags, past the higgledy piggledy pews, down wooden steps and into a small sunken area in the southeast corner of the church. The altar was a few feet away, up more steps, to the left, but here, in this depressed corner of the church, carpets covered the stone floor and cushions of many colours were scattered around a low table. The aroma was of incense and candle wax. The monk indicated Reaper should sit and they chose cushions facing each other.

‘Now, how can I help you, Brother Reaper?’

Abraham was as tall as the departed Brother Mark, but aesthetically better proportioned. He was in his mid-thirties and wore a white woollen habit with a hood that hung down his back. His feet were bare. His brown hair was clean and well looked after, parted in the middle and hung to his shoulders. His beard, whilst full, was trimmed and well cared for. His face was well defined: high cheek bones; aquiline nose; blue eyes; a mouth that was both strong and sensual and was now smiling at Reaper as if to say, well, what do you think?

Reaper thought Abraham looked like a Renaissance Christ. Brother Mark had glowed with an inner fanaticism, but Abraham glowed with an inner charisma. It was easy to see why he had followers.

‘I come from a community called Haven towards the coast,’ he said.

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘One of our people has gone missing. Ronnie Ronaldo.’ Reaper shrugged at the name and Abraham smiled. ‘We believe he came here some days ago and we haven’t heard from him since.’

‘Brother Ronald is, indeed, with us,’ said Abraham. ‘He is our guest – although, I have to admit, a reluctant one. He intruded into our domain without permission and resisted apprehension.’

‘Resisted?’

‘Oh, nothing too serious. He pushed one of our fellows off the castle wall whilst trying to escape.’

‘Was the man hurt?’

Reaper had visions of a long drop onto concrete.

‘It was upon a stretch with soft turf below and a gentle slope into a stream. Our brother survived with a sprained wrist and dampened enthusiasm. Others were nearby and subdued Brother Ronald, although, from what I was told, he accepted his containment readily enough. The good Lord tells us to turn the other cheek but, sadly, not all my followers are as assiduous in following the teachings of the Lord as they should be. I regret Brother Ronald received a few kicks and cuffs whilst being restrained.’

‘Is he hurt?’

‘Merely bruised.’

Reaper really had walked through a time warp. He felt he was in a different past, an alternative reality. Abraham was using language that was not quite archaic but not of the real world, either.

‘If your man is hurt, we have a doctor,’ he offered.

‘Do not be concerned. The injury was nothing serious. Pride was hurt more than anything else. He has been tended by our own apothecary.’

Apothecary? ‘Where is Ronnie?’

‘He is in jail. The castle cells, you know, once housed Richard Turpin before his execution.’

Reaper said, ‘You’re not going to execute him?’

‘Not on this occasion. It is my hope that Brother Ronald might appreciate the gravity of his situation because of the historical context of his confinement. We have told him he occupies the same prison cell once occupied by the highwayman so that he can contemplate Dick Turpin, his own transgressions and the possibility of the long drop. He also receives daily visits from a cleric who instructs him in appropriate passages from the Bible. I hope that he now understands that he committed grievous trespass and, once released, will not do so again.’

‘So he is not actually in Turpin’s cell?’

‘He is in a storeroom of the Castle Museum. Bare stone walls, a barred window and a solid door, so the subterfuge is believable. Turpin’s cell still exists but has no door. It was removed to make access easier for tourists.’

The hint of a smile permanently lingered around Abraham’s mouth as if he was mocking both Reaper and his own position. But he had to be taken seriously. At this precise moment, Abraham held the power of life and death over both Ronnie and Reaper.

‘So you will release him?’

‘Of course.’

‘When?’

‘I will release him into your custody on the condition that no one from your community invades our society in the future. Not just here in the city, but amongst our brethren who work the land along the river to the northwest. All we desire is to be left in peace to commune with God; to make amends for the sins of the world and sow the seeds of a more humble future.’ For the first time, the smile had gone. These sentiments, Abraham believed in.

Reaper looked around. ‘I thought the Minster would be a more suitable place for your devotions.’

‘Oh it is. We have services there twice a day and thrice on Sunday. This modest but holy dwelling is where I live. This is the Church of the Holy Trinity. God has been worshipped here since the 12th century and this church has existed since the 15th. These walls have heard a lot of prayers. At night, I hear them still, reverberating from the stones and in my dreams. They give me comfort and certitude in my belief in God’s mysterious ways.’

‘Mysterious ways?’ Reaper said.

‘The plague.’

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in God.’

‘What do you believe in, Brother Reaper?’

‘Survival? The human spirit?’

‘Don’t you think God resides in the human spirit? In that part of a man or woman that we call the soul? That part that makes him different from the animals and wild beasts?’

‘I’ve met quite a few wild beasts in the last twelve months who claimed to be human. I killed them. Was I killing God?’

‘You were killing the devil.’

‘I don’t believe in the devil, either. I believe that a man can be a right bastard without any help from anyone or any god.’

‘Satan was once part of God’s holy horde, His holy alliance, until he and a third of all the angels rebelled against God’s word. Ever since then, they have lured man from the path of righteousness through temptation. They have driven men, through greed, ambition and lusts, to wage wars, to commit genocide, to hate.’ He smiled. ‘This is the simplified version. It can be taken as an allegory of the human spirit. Good and evil are intertwined within us in perpetual conflict. Small inner battles that govern small personal decisions, in trying to lead the best life we can without harm to our fellow man. But it is still good and evil. God and the devil … good and evil. See how closely the words are. God is in the spirit of man, Brother Reaper. And the devil is the unholy aspect of this alliance.’

Reaper did not respond. He suspected getting involved in a philosophical discussion about good, evil, and God might be unrewarding.

Abraham smiled. ‘Let’s have lunch. Rebecca?’ he called.

After a moment’s hesitation the door to the vestry on the other side of the church opened and a young woman entered, bare feet slapping on the stones. She wore a full-length dress of white cotton and, from the way it moved against her body, very little else. Her hair was tied behind her head and she wore no make up. She looked fresh and lovely. She carried a tray upon which were two glasses and a bottle of wine that had already been opened.

Rebecca knelt on a cushion, placed the tray on the floor and transferred the glasses to the table. She poured wine into both, stood the bottle on the floor, and went to kneel beside Abraham.

Another, similarly dressed, young woman also emerged from the side room. She carried a bigger tray loaded with food. She was a plainer girl, although pleasant to look at and the drape of the dress showed her shape to be attractive. After placing the tray on the table, she knelt on the other side of Abraham.

He put an arm around each and, with a smile, said, ‘Mary and Rebecca. My Trinity is complete.’

The men ate and the girls watched. Fresh bread, cheese and slices of ham. The wine was a Burgundy and extremely palatable, even to Reaper, who knew nothing about wines. The meal – and the wine – invited conversation and Reaper explained how and why he had travelled to Haven and how the community had formed. He described the attack it had survived.

‘You fought?’ Abraham asked.

‘We fought.’

‘And you vanquished your foes?’

‘We vanquished them.’

‘Permanently?’

‘It’s the only way. Turn the other cheek and they’ll come back and kill you.’

‘I’m afraid what you say is true.’ Abraham was reflective. ‘I had hoped it would be different, that the world would learn. But it hasn’t.’

‘It’s getting better. The good guys are winning and settlements are growing.’

Abraham nodded and said, ‘But there are still dangers. Envy and greed still stalk the land. Rapists and murderers still look for victims.’

‘True. That’s why all the settlements near us help each other. There is strength in numbers, in federation, in a common spirit.’

‘That may be so. But we, in this blessed city of York, have put our trust in the Lord and in the past.’

‘You mean, no motor cars, no petrol, no guns?’

‘I mean we have put our trust in an age before greed and jealousy were lauded. Before people had a 42 inch effigy to Mammon in their front room, spewing out enticements to buy more, acquire more and forsake true Godliness in the pursuit of a perceived happiness that only came from possessions.’

He sipped wine.

‘Humanity lost its way. The populace was confounded and confused. Religion became bigger car, bigger house, bigger breasts, bigger debt, bigger sins. Sin became the norm,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Godlessness was rife. The commandments were shattered. God’s vengeance was a plague.’

Reaper said, ‘And so you arm yourselves with bows and arrows and Brother Mark doesn’t wash?’

‘That is only the surface manifestation of a deeper belief.’

‘The plague happened,’ Reaper said. ‘Whether the virus was man’s mistake or God’s vengeance, it happened. But those who are left have to plan for the future with whatever they have available. Surely that includes cars, petrol, tractors. Even guns for protection. Bows and arrows will not protect you from an Uzi sub-machinegun.’

‘Then we will die. In the meantime, we will pray to God and try to cleanse our souls of past misdeeds and misconceptions. And if we don’t die, we shall thrive because we started our new lives in the simpler times of the past, without cars but with horse power, without guns but with arrows for hunting. How will Haven cope when the petrol runs out, when there are no more bullets?’

Reaper picked up the wine bottle and held it so the label could be read.

‘But you make exceptions?’ he said

Abraham smiled.

‘It would be sinful not to,’ he said. ‘God would not wish us to waste a good bottle of Burgundy, nor indeed any tinned food that may still be edible. Brother Mark, however, is a purist. He refuses the wine in preference of our own brewed beer which, to be honest, is less than palatable. He has embraced the past so completely that he has forsaken washing and personal hygiene, as you have noticed. His only concession is the shoes he wears. Mark has bad feet and needs the comfort of his blessed trainers. Yet even there, he assuages his conscience by choosing Nike, named after Ancient Greece’s Winged Goddess of Victory.’ Abraham smiled anew. ‘Nike, you might say, is protecting his soles.’

Reaper grinned in response.

‘It seems that in your new religion, you can pick and choose.’

His gaze went from Rebecca to Mary.

Abraham laughed.

‘There is personal choice. There has to be. We are a community of contradictions. All I do is preach and pray. I try to set an example and hope that others may follow. That’s all I ever did, and the people came.’ He put his arms around the two girls and gave their shoulders a squeeze. ‘Mary and Rebecca came and I chose them to make my Trinity because my choice was not to cast out beauty but to revere it.’ He kissed each on the head in turn. ‘I revere them but I do not sully them. I am celibate, Brother Reaper, in the face of this daily temptation.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged.

‘Because I have free choice. Because I have the strength to be celibate. Because by being celibate, I prove my fidelity to God, to a higher commitment. So that I can eliminate lust and practice love.’

‘Gandhi slept with naked disciples to test his celibacy,’ Reaper said.

‘Brachmacharya,’ agreed Abraham. ‘The philosophy of spiritual and practical purity. But I’m not Gandhi. We don’t sleep naked together. You can take temptation too far. And I do not impose celibacy upon those who follow me.’

‘Will you always be celibate?’

Abraham raised one eyebrow and the smile returned.

‘Who knows what God plans.’

‘His mysterious ways?’ said Reaper.

‘Exactly. Perhaps he will speak to me among the prayers I hear within these walls every night and give me new directions.’

Reaper chuckled.

‘I founded this community by accident, Brother Reaper. You founded yours by design. Perhaps God spared you to help others. Perhaps we are more alike than you would like to think?’

‘Why are you so certain you know God’s will?’

‘Because I am following God’s orders. He told me to pray and to preach. Others interpreted what I said in their own ways and, before I knew it, I had a following. The way we live has evolved through trial and error. I started with an Amish ideal. You know of them?’

‘I’ve heard of them.’

The Amish are … were? … a Christian religious sect in America that believed in simple living without modern conveniences. They often banned such devices as motor vehicles, radios or electricity. They practised humility and submission to the will of God. They kept their contacts with the outside world to the minimum, so as to avoid temptation and contamination. The Amish ideals are still here, in York, but have been adapted. Our personal beliefs within these city walls may take many different forms, but our lifestyle comes from consensus and tolerance. There are 182 men, women and children living here, and they have all chosen to live this way. But with discretionary contradictions.’

He nodded to himself and gazed into his wine glass for a moment as if considering his words.

‘I pray, others organise, and a sort of order out of chaos was founded around me.’ He shrugged. ‘If I wanted to change it, I doubt I could any more. I am a victim of my own success.’

He grinned, almost sheepishly, and Reaper couldn’t help but like him.

Abraham indicated the dishes and the two women rose, cleared the trays and returned to the vestry, closing the door behind them. They left the bottle of wine and the glasses and the two men alone.

Reaper said, ‘Who organises the city? The defences, food, day-to-day life? Obviously, you look after the spiritual well-being, but who looks after the rest?’

‘We have the Council of York,’ he said. ‘It makes most decisions. As I said, they are usually based on consensus. Brother Barry is a more practical person than I. He leads the Council.’

‘Wears a cloak and a dog collar and rides a horse?’

‘You’ve met him?’ Abraham seemed concerned.

‘I saw him in the street. He spoke to Brother Mark.’

‘He will have been piqued that you did not ask for him.’

‘Barry doesn’t sound a very religious name?’

‘Barry Foster. He used to be a theatrical medium. He’s been talking to the dead for years.’ Abraham smiled mischievously.

Reaper said, ‘Then he had plenty to talk to after the virus finished.’

‘He now prefers preaching his message to the living.’

‘Where’s he from?’

‘He lived in Boston Spa. Lost his wife in the plague. They didn’t have children. He came here because he had a booking at the Theatre Royal. Would you believe it? The world had ended and he turned up because the date was in his diary. An Evening With Psychic Medium Barry Foster. I think, like many, he was living in shock immediately afterwards. I’d been preaching, and holding non-denominational services in the Minster for about a week, when I noticed him because of the cross he wore around his neck. It was a plain wooden one, then. Now he wears a gold cross he found in the Minster. As I said, he is more practical than I am. He began organising and started holding services of his own, sort of … ancillary to mine. For some reason, he made me the figurehead.’

‘Because you look like a prophet?’ Reaper said.

Abraham laughed. ‘I suppose you have a point.’

‘What about Brother Mark?’

‘Brother Mark would have joined the Crusades if he had been born at the time – and what did they ever do but consolidate an enmity between Muslim and Christian that lasted a thousand years. Thank goodness there are no crusades left. But he does have a great belief in good and evil.’ He smiled. ‘He was a second year student of theology at the university. A mature student. His application to become an ordinant in the Anglican Church had been unsuccessful and he hoped this would prove to the bishop that he was serious in his desire to join the priesthood. I suspect he fights his demons every day and every night. This place is right for him. He would be lost anywhere else.

‘Everyone here, I suppose, is damaged in one way or another, as are people everywhere. But through work and routine and prayer, they are learning to live again in simplicity. They have inhabited the older parts of the city for this very reason. We keep animals, grow vegetables, make cheese, brew ale, make candles. We have a blacksmith and farrier and a fully working forge. You should have a blacksmith, Brother Reaper. Plan for the future.’

‘Do you weave?’ said Reaper.

‘We have ambitions in that direction.’

‘We have sheep. We could trade you wool, if you didn’t consider trade a contamination.’

Abraham smiled.

‘We have principles but there is no point cutting off the nose to spite the face. Trade could be acceptable. What would you want in return?’

‘How about allowing one of our people to work with your blacksmith? To become his apprentice and learn his trade?’

Abraham nodded.

‘That seems a reasonable request. I shall put it to the Council.’

‘As well as wool, we could offer fresh produce.’

‘That, too, would be welcome.’ He smiled. ‘I feel we have come to an understanding, Brother Reaper. An exchange of ideas is always welcome. I have tried not to preach, but to explain. Besides, I rather think preaching would fall on stony ground, as far as you are concerned. So I shall pray for you, instead.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, your companions outside the gates will be worrying about you. Perhaps it is time to reunite you with Brother Ronald so that you can go home.’

He led the way to the door and, in the porch, he slipped his feet into a pair of open toed sandals.

‘Dr Scholl may not be a god like Nike but he made damn fine sandals,’ he said. ‘I may raise him to the sainthood.’

Brother Mark waited outside, along with the two guards. Two horses were tethered to the porch. Abraham handed the reins of one to Reaper.

‘Do you ride?’ he said.

‘Not very well, but I can manage.’

‘You should learn.’ Abraham smiled. ‘It’s the future.’

They led the horses into Goodramgate and mounted, Abraham with ease, despite the habit. Reaper more carefully. He had had only a couple of lessons back at Haven. He knew horsepower would be the future eventually. Maybe he should take more lessons. They rode at a gentle pace. Brother Mark followed behind on foot; the two guards remained behind. Reaper wondered whether they had been there for his benefit, or to restrict Brother Abraham?

Abraham set a gentle pace to a pleasant square, with trees and a flagged centre. The monk reined in and pointed down an impossibly narrow lane, where the upper stories of old timber-framed houses butted out and overhung the cobbles, almost meeting to keep out the sunshine.

‘The Shambles,’ he explained. ‘Before the plague, most of the houses were cafes or gift shops. Now people use them once more as modest dwellings.’

Reaper checked the upstairs windows in case someone might decide to empty a chamber pot, but the monk led them a different way, through an open area with empty market stalls, into a wide thoroughfare called Parliament Street, with trees and a central paved area. The city felt empty, despite Abraham’s followers, but it still looked good after a year of stagnation. But then, what was one more year on top of all the history that it carried in its stones?

At the end of Parliament Street, they turned right past another church and then left, down Coppergate, a narrow pedestrian way of modern red brick that opened into a wide and attractive piazza with a Starbucks on the left and the entrance to the Jorvik Viking museum on the right. Overgrown shrubs were in the centre, crowding round a solitary tree in a planted area that was surrounded by seating. On the right was another ancient church of white stone. The remnants of a burnt-out fast food kiosk, was in front of a Boots store, a Marks and Spencers and Topshop, its windows still filled with last year’s teenage fashions.

Brother Abraham led the way up a sloping exit lane between the church and an art shop, turned left, and they emerged in front of a large car park and an open space that was dominated by a thirty foot high, turfed mound upon which stood a white stone fortification.

‘Clifford’s Tower,’ Abraham said.

The imposing edifice was hundreds of years old and looked battered, as if by siege. It was defiant and impressive. The mound that raised it high had been built on an elevated position that looked down a slope to a main road and the river beyond.

They crossed the car park that in normal times, would have been packed with the vehicles of tourists and shoppers but was now only a quarter full. As they approached the front of the tower, Reaper saw that a flight of narrow stone steps led up the grass embankment to its entrance. A woman was partway up the steps. She wore a tracksuit, like most of the others he had seen in the city, and was climbing the steps on her knees, pausing on each one to dip her head in prayer.

Reaper looked at Abraham for an explanation.

‘Brother Barry,’ he said. ‘The woman is Sister Alice. Barry regressed her. He’s also a hypnotist. Do you know the history of the Tower?’

‘No.’

‘The Jews of York died there,” the monk said. “In the 12th century, the Tower was made of wood. The Jews took refuge there when the town’s citizens attacked them.’

‘Why did they attack them?’ said Reaper.

‘Religious fervour – King Richard was raising a crusade. Plus religious bigotry, of course, and to rid themselves of debts. The Jews had loaned silver to everybody from the King and his barons to the tradesmen of the city. The hatred was whipped up by a mad priest and they laid siege to the tower.’

‘What happened?’

‘The Jews fought, despite the odds, but the situation became hopeless and the wooden tower was set alight. Many of the Jews killed their wives and children and then themselves. Mass suicide. Like those in Masada, in Judaea, when faced by the Romans. Those who were left, either died in the flames or were massacred by the honest citizens of York.’ He nodded towards the woman on the steps. ‘Brother Barry says that in a previous life, Sister Alice was one of the perpetrators of the genocide. To make amends, Barry told her to climb the fifty-five steps every day on her knees.’

‘Religion has a lot to answer for,’ Reaper said. ‘So does Brother Barry.’

‘It does indeed,’ said Abraham, ignoring the comment about the medium. ‘Religious madness has been around for centuries. I hold a service here once a week in remembrance of prejudice and the Jews. And for the glory of the one God. York is the perfect city for recovery. It’s full of history, monuments, churches, reminders. Signposts for the soul.’

Reaper had no answer to that. At least, none of which Abraham would have approved.

They passed the Tower and rode towards a three-sided square of imposing buildings. The central area was a circle that was overgrown with grass that rose thigh high, a single tree at its centre. Ahead of them was the Castle Museum: an older structure with a modern glass fronted addition to serve as the entrance.

The monk pointed and said, ‘These used to be prison buildings. Built in the 18th century on the site of the castle. The Crown Court is to your right. There used to be geese here. Sadly, they were eaten.’

Below the Crown Court was Tower Street, a main road that provided another entrance to the city. Vehicles blocked all lanes. Here, there was no formidable castle wall or gateway. Here, you could drive over a grass border or make your way along the river embankment to enter the city. Here, more than anywhere else, Reaper thought, the security of the city was shown to be an illusion.

But then, as Tanya had pointed out, the city was vulnerable at many places. The blockages and occasional guards were meant as a psychological deterrent rather than a barrier. Perhaps to stop people leaving, as much as to make new arrivals think twice about their motives for entering.

They rode along the road to the left, towards the museum entrance. On a raised area was an artillery field gun that was obviously long out of use and part of the museum display. They stopped at the entrance, dismounted and a young man came from inside to take charge of the horses.

‘Brother Mark,’ Abraham said to their companion, who had walked at a discreet distance behind them. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to prepare Brother Ronald for his deliverance?’

‘Straight away, Brother.’

Mark disappeared inside. Abraham indicated with a hand that they should follow. They entered a foyer in which there was a pay desk, a cafeteria and a gift shop.

‘I like it here,’ said Abraham. ‘I often take a walk through time. When it actually was a museum, all the rooms inside were blacked out. We’ve removed much of the interior cladding, reclaimed the windows and the natural light. Of course, there are parts where you still need a lamp, but it remains an interesting experience. Although I wouldn’t say it is inspirational, it reflects the history of a very turbulent city through centuries that have often been violent. Times when life has invariably been unfair and death arbitrary. If nothing else, it provides an incentive to try harder next time. This time. To try to build a society that is fair and godly.’

Reaper wandered into the gift shop. Abraham followed and picked a selection of guidebooks and tourist maps.

‘Please,’ he said, handing them to him as a gift. ‘No charge.’

He smiled and Reaper, glancing at the dead tills and the empty shelves of the cafe, smiled back.

Abraham led him through a staff door, along a gloomy ground floor corridor, and down a short flight of stairs. A door that led outside into a yard was open, letting in daylight. Brother Mark waited there. A man in a cassock, who held a book and cross in clasped hands, was standing by another open door that Reaper presumed, was Ronnie’s cell.

‘Is all well, Father?’ said Abraham.

‘I would have liked more time with him, Brother, but I think this experience may have done some good.’

Reaper and Abraham looked inside. Ronnie Ronaldo was sitting on a stool. His narrow face was full of contrition and had bruising around the left eye. Dim light filtered through a barred window. A palliasse and blanket were on the stone floor and a bucket covered by a piece of wood was in the corner. The wood cover was unable to contain the odours that leaked into the confined space.

‘Boss?’ Ronnie said, with surprise.

‘How are you, Ronnie? How have they been treating you?’

‘They’ve treated me fine, boss. Why are you here?’

‘To take you home. We’ve missed you.’

Ronnie suppressed a smile. ‘Are we going now?’ he said. ‘I’m taking Bible classes, like, and Father Michael says I need a few more.’

‘We’ll get the Reverend Nick to carry on the good work back at Haven, if you like.’

‘Nick?’ The voice of the priest queried the possibility. ‘I pray this is not a euphemism for Old Nick? You hear such stories from beyond the walls.’

‘Certainly not, Father,’ said Reaper. ‘The Reverend Nick is a God-fearing man like yourself, properly ordained and well versed in the word of the Lord.’ Just for a moment, he wondered whether Nick actually was ordained. After all, anybody could pretend to be anything and no one would be any the wiser. Like Abraham. Like Brother Barry. Maybe like Father Michael. ‘He’ll be happy to see to Ronnie’s welfare.’

Abraham said, ‘Shall we go, brothers? The staleness of the air is getting a little oppressive.’

A combination of Brother Mark and the bucket was making breathing strained, even with the open door. But, if it came to a choice, Reaper would have picked the bucket.

Brother Abraham left Reaper at the Castle Museum to ride back to Holy Trinity alone and prepare for the six o’clock service in the Minster. Reaper declined his invitation to attend. Abraham again said he would put to the Council the possibility of trading, which might be undertaken on neutral ground outside the city walls.

Brother Mark led the way back and they retraced their steps down Goodramgate. As they approached Monk Bar, Reaper saw that the small man in black with the crossbow was still in place.

‘Who’s the little chap in black?’ he asked. ‘The one who tried to skewer me?’

Mark looked up at the walkway on the wall and said, ‘That’s Brother Cedric. If he had tried to skewer you, you would have been skewered.’

Cedric was watching Reaper again, the malice apparent in his eyes.

‘Happy little soul, isn’t he?’ Reaper said.

Reaper and Ronnie slipped between the barrels and walked along the middle of the road towards the two parked cars.

As they increased the distance, Ronnie said softly, ‘You’re right about that Cedric. He’s an evil little bastard.’

‘You know him?’

‘I met him. Him and a mate came to the cell and gave me a kicking.’

‘Why?’

‘Light entertainment?’ Ronnie said.

Reaper glanced sideways at the skinny man, to confirm what he meant. He didn’t look back. He knew the crossbow would be pointed at him. Neither did they increase their pace. And Brother Abraham thought he led such a wholesome little community.

Then they were beyond accurate crossbow range and met the three girls, who embraced an embarrassed but happy Ronnie. While Tanya and Jenny questioned him about his experiences, Sandra stayed with Reaper as he once more fastened on his weapons and caressed the carbine. He hadn’t realised how much they had become a part of him and that without them he didn’t feel complete. Did that make him sad or safe?

He took a deep breath and blew it out.

‘Difficult?’ Sandra said.

‘It’s just nice to breathe clean air again.’ He looked back from where they had come. He had seen no signs of self-flagellation but he had sensed something else. ‘Something behind those walls has a bad smell about it.’

And it wasn’t just body odour.