The Matrix (23 page)

‘Ten minutes or so. There are some things I have to explain to her.’

He left, and I sat down again, clutching the envelope to me. I decided to wait until Harriet returned. I did not want to read Iain’s letter alone.

The Acanthus is a café near the station that serves light lunches. We both needed strong coffee and a place to sit and read. While we waited to be served, I tore open the envelope. Inside was a short handwritten letter. Judging by the writing, Iain had penned the letter in more than one session. His hand clearly betrayed the stages of his physical deterioration, growing increasingly less legible as it neared the end. I read it slowly, then passed it to Harriet without comment. There was nothing I needed to add.

Dear Andrew,
the letter began
, I’m sorry we didn’t have longer to talk when we last met. I know a bit more now about the pressures you’ve been under lately, and I apologize for my clumsy attempt to put you right. Please put it down to inexperience, and the fact that I was concerned for you. I know I should have been more tactful, but you were my friend, and I wanted to help you. I suppose it goes with the job and the collar. Still, I should have known better, and I do apologize.

All the same I’m more certain than ever that I was right to warn you against Duncan Mylne. Perhaps you’ll have seen enough by now to convince you he means you harm; if not, I suppose you’ll already have torn up this letter.

I said I’d heard rumours about Mylne, that he had an evil reputation in some quarters; but I didn’t know then just how evil that reputation was, or how well merited. The things I heard in the beginning encouraged me to find out more. It wasn’t easy. Even in the church, people I asked about him would say a little and then clam up. That just made me more determined to see what lay behind all the secrecy.

I got my breakthrough a few days before that last visit to your flat. That was the real reason why I called, to tell you what I already knew and what I planned to do next; but when Mylne turned up I couldn’t risk staying. I meant to get in touch with you after that, and I would have done, if it hadn’t been for this illness.

You may have heard me speak of Angus Brodie, a member of the General Assembly and a good friend of mine. Sometimes he’s called in by people who’ve been troubled by – let’s say, evil spirits. Angus doesn’t call what he does exorcism, since our church does not recognize the practice; but there are cases now and again when something more than simple prayers are needed.

I mentioned Mylne to him, and he told me what he knew, which was more or less the same as I’d heard from other people. But he then said that, in more serious cases, he was assisted by a friend, a Catholic priest. As you can imagine, this is not something he’d like known to all and sundry, least of all his more puritan colleagues on the Assembly. All the same, he was good enough to give me the priest’s name, and I made an appointment to see him.

The writing broke off here, and when it resumed was in a different ink and a much altered hand.

I’ve been very ill these past few days. The headaches get more and more intense until I think my head will crack open. I don’t know how much longer I can bear them. The doctors say they can find nothing wrong. That doesn’t surprise me. I know very well what’s responsible for my sickness. It won’t show up in any tests.

Between bouts I feel weak but clear-headed. Harriet tells me you’ve gone to Morocco with Mylne, and I’m afraid he has you for good now. But I still feel I should write this in the very small hope it may do good, and because I know I do not have long. I’ll be dead before you return, Andrew, I know that.

I wouldn’t mind so much, were it not for the dreams I’ve been having. Have you been dreaming too? I suspect you have. There is a hooded figure that troubles me greatly. Sometimes he appears in the daytime, when I’m awake. For moments only, then he’s gone. I’ve been seeing more of him lately, when the pain is bad. Once he sat on the edge of my bed for over an hour, just watching me. I’m terrified that he will lift his hood and that I shall see his face.

I visited the priest two days after I saw you, and came away more shaken than I have ever been. His name is Father Silvestri, and he lives alone in a small parish house in Corstorphine. He was cautious at first, even though I’d brought a letter of introduction from Angus. But when I told him why I’d come and what I knew already, he agreed to help.

Andrew, you must go to Silvestri as soon as you read this. Go without delay: he will tell you everything. Listen to what he says and follow whatever instructions he may give you. And make sure you get away from Mylne, whatever the cost. Silvestri told me things almost beyond belief. He told me all he knew about Mylne, and he showed me proof to back it up. Silvestri is not a madman, and I believe every word he said. Duncan Mylne is not what he seems. He is not even human in any real sense of the word. You must believe me. He . . .’

The writing broke off again, and when it resumed it was clear that Iain’s condition had deteriorated markedly in the meantime.

Have to finish – or this thing will never end. Harriet must not know – So hard to leave her alone. Look after her, Andrew. Silvestri has been, but he can do nothing. We pray, but our prayers are not strong enough against that man.

Have you seen the church, Andrew? You know the one I mean, you must know. The grey church – It’s in my dreams every night now, sometimes I think I shall go mad, for I believe I shall wake up there. Dear God, the sounds I hear . . .

The writing trailed off again. At the very end, Iain had scribbled a few lines, broken and barely legible. I read them with great difficulty. They were the last words he ever wrote.

Find the church – Destroy everything – They are swarming – Angus Mylne brought them back from Morocco . . .

Harriet set down the letter. I watched her, saying nothing, knowing it was not yet time to speak. I could see that she was fighting hard to control her emotions. She had just read her husband’s last written words, only to find them the ravings of a frightened man suffering from delusions. That is how it must have seemed to her.

So we sat like that for fifteen minutes, the silence between us tight and uninterrupted by the noises around us, until Harriet was calm once more, and ready to discuss whatever consequences might follow from Iain’s account.

‘He came to the house,’ she said at last.

I looked at her in horror.

‘No, not Mylne,’ she said, correctly interpreting my expression. ‘The priest, Father Silvestri. He came two or three times before Iain died. They spent about an hour together each time. I asked Iain about him, of course, but he would never explain. I assumed Silvestri was someone he had worked with. Iain used to be quite involved with ecumenical matters, and I knew he’d made close friends with several priests. He came to the funeral as well. I saw him in the distance, but he never spoke to me.’

‘Silvestri must have been trying to save Iain from Mylne,’ I said.

‘It didn’t do much good, did it?’

I looked at her. Her hands were flat on the table, the fingers close together, the nails filed short.

‘It depends on what you mean,’ I said. ‘We don’t know what Silvestri was trying to save him from. Death may have been the least of Iain’s fears.’

She lifted her hands and smoothed her hair. Today, she wore it tied back, a little severely. Her forehead was smooth and white, her eyebrows dark against the skin. I both pitied and feared her.

‘This thing about a church,’ she said. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

I nodded.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He used to talk about it a lot in the days before he died. A dark church with a veil across the chancel. We thought he was just raving. He was incoherent, seldom in his right mind.’

‘Oh, he knew what he was talking about,’ I said. ‘There is a church.’

‘You know where it is?’

I nodded, ‘Yes’.

‘And you know what’s inside it, what it is you’re supposed to destroy?’

I nodded again. Through a window to my left I could see cars and buses slip past, people walking, trees shedding their leaves – a world over which I had once thought to obtain mastery.
Destroy everything – They are swarming—

‘We’ll speak to Silvestri before we do anything,’ she said.

I was finding it hard to concentrate. The thought of entering the church again filled me with dread.
They are swarming
—

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘But, as you said, he couldn’t save Iain, and I don’t suppose he can do any more for us.’

‘Do you have any better suggestions?’

‘I’m worried about my father,’ I said.

‘Silvestri . . .’

I shook my head.

‘No, he can’t help. Maybe . . . I’ve been thinking that I should take Iain’s letter to Ramsey McLean. He’s a close friend of my father’s, he’ll want to help. And he is a doctor, he may understand what’s wrong.’

‘He won’t believe a word of that letter.’

‘But he may see some sort of connection. I have to try.’

I found a telephone kiosk and rang McLean’s surgery. His receptionist said he had just returned from his morning rounds, and that he was about to have lunch. I gave my name, and a few moments later I was put through.

‘Dr McLean? This is Andrew Macleod.’

‘Andrew? Goodness, it’s been some time since I last saw you. I thought you’d left town.’

‘My job here finished, but I decided to stay on. Listen, I need to speak with you urgently.’

‘Is this on a medical matter?’

I hesitated.

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But indirectly. My father is very ill.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter with him?’

‘It’s hard to explain,’ I said. ‘Is there any chance you can see me today? I’d like a bit longer than the usual consultation.’

‘Come at four,’ he said. ‘I can get one of my colleagues to fill in.’

‘Are you sure that’s all right?’

‘Of course. If your father’s ill, I want to do what I can to help. I’ll be waiting for you at four o’clock.’

A taxi left us at Silvestri’s door. We had been given the address by the Catholic diocesan office. It was an unpretentious house next door to a church and facing a religious primary school. A housekeeper opened the door and we gave our names. She asked us to wait in a little room off the hall, a brown-painted room with a shabby carpet and straight-backed chairs. The walls were decorated with religious pictures of the dully pious variety. An air of solemnity hung over everything. There was a very great silence throughout the house, and the raised hands of the saints in their black frames seemed to warn against speech or laughter.

Several minutes passed. We glanced self-consciously at one another from time to time, neither one daring to say a word, as though we were children in school awaiting a teacher’s discipline. Finally, the door opened. An elderly man in a loose black suit and dog-collar stood facing us.

‘I am Silvestri,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

Harriet got to her feet. She seemed ill at ease.

‘We’ve met once or twice before,’ she said. ‘You came to our house to visit my husband Iain when he was ill. And I saw you at his funeral.’

‘Iain Gillespie,’ the priest said. ‘Yes, I remember him. I am so sorry. He was very young.’

Harriet nodded, but did not pursue the subject of Iain’s death. She turned to me, then back to Silvestri.

‘This is Andrew Macleod. I’m sure you know his name. Iain told you about him, told you he was afraid Andrew was in danger from a man called Mylne.’

I saw the look in the priest’s eyes. Not fear, but something very like it, something more terrible. He was a thin, academic-looking man of around seventy, a Jesuit, one of those desiccated priests with a scrawny neck protruding from his collar like a plant out of a pot, but not a bit funny. There was something grim and old-fashioned about him, an air of suffering and knowledge. The skin tight to the bone, the flesh wasted, the heart and the mind burned for the sake of faith.

‘You have broken from Mylne?’ he asked. His jaw was tense. He did not once take his eyes from me.

I nodded.

‘But he won’t give me up,’ I said. ‘Things have been happening. I . . . can’t go on.’

He did not close his eyes, but I sensed him close himself off, as though drawing a curtain about his person, or an invisible shield.

‘Iain has told us about his meetings with you,’ said Harriet. ‘He left details in a letter.’

‘Then you know all there is to know.’

Harriet shook her head vigorously.

‘No,’ she said, ‘we know next to nothing. Only rumour and innuendo, things we can’t hold on to. Iain said you would tell us the rest, that you would help us.’

‘I can’t help anyone,’ said the priest. ‘If you’ve become entangled with Mylne, you’re beyond my reach. I can pray for you, but nothing more.’

Harriet held out Iain’s letter, which she had taken from her bag.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Read the letter.’

Silvestri hesitated. He seemed arthritic, but held himself erect against whatever pain there was.

‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘If you had come to me sooner, when you first met Mylne, perhaps . . .’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘We have no one else to turn to.’

The hesitation again, then the most imperceptible of nods. He held out his hand. Harriet handed him the letter, unfolded. He took a pair of pince-nez from his breast pocket and slipped them on his nose. He read carefully, without remark. Once or twice, I saw his face tighten. But his hands were steady. They were the steadiest hands I think I have ever seen. As though he was laced with iron. When he reached the end, he folded the letter and passed it back to Harriet.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Your husband is still remembered in my prayers, every night and every morning.’

He seemed to be making up his mind about something. But where most men would have looked at the carpet or through the window, he kept his eyes fixed on me. I felt he could see into me.

‘You had better tell me what you know,’ he said. ‘And what has happened between you and Mylne. This is not a comfortable room. Come with me.’