The Key

67

Ruin

The old town had remained closed all morning while the earthquake damage had been cleared away from the streets. When they finally did open the portcullis gates, a little after two in the afternoon, there were thousands of people waiting to climb up to the public church at the top of the hill to give thanks for their safe deliverance. Dr Anata was one of them.

She jostled along with the flow of packed bodies, noticing how everything in the old town appeared remarkably untouched. Some of the pilgrims remarked on this apparent miracle, but Dr Anata knew better: it had more to do with geology than theology. Earthquakes were like waves and so looser ground amplified them, whereas the solid rock the old town was built on had damped them down, rendering them less effective. The earthquake had been less intense here, that was the only difference.

It took her nearly forty minutes to make it to the top of the hill and pass into the cool, monolithic interior of the public church. It was packed with the penitent and hummed with the combined sound and nervous energy of all the tourists and worshippers who had gathered to offer up prayers of forgiveness, thanks or contrition. Dr Anata weaved between them all, heading directly across the flagstoned floor to the confessional booths in the furthest corner of the church. Gabriel had offered to go, but with normality returning to the city, and too many people on the lookout for him, she had gone instead, thrilling at the opportunity to play a small part in something as momentous as this. Her entire life she had read about history; today she was actually making some.

She arrived at the confessional and took a seat on the end of a pew lined with subdued worshippers, all staring resolutely at the curtained booths. The walls behind them were painted with an elaborate and vividly imagined mediaeval fresco depicting the day of reckoning. Dr Anata wondered if they would let her jump the queue if they knew she was here to try to avert the very thing they were all staring at. She doubted it. People were funny about queues — even when the end of the world was at stake — so she settled down for a wait. It took a further twenty minutes before she made the short walk of shame and closed the curtain behind her.

Inside, it was cramped and smelled of incense and fear. She perched on a wooden ledge, bringing her face level with the grille.

‘Do you have something to confess?’ a muffled voice prompted.

‘I would like to pass a message to Brother Peacock.’ There was a brief pause, then whoever had been sitting there promptly got up and left without uttering another word.

Dr Anata listened to the sound of retreating footsteps melting into the general hubbub of the huge church. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this sudden and silent departure certainly wasn’t it. She felt nervous in its wake. As an academic she was wholly unused to situations that placed her at risk and her mind was now in overdrive, imagining all sorts of scenarios involving security guards and brutal interrogation. Only the importance of the message she carried, and everything that hung on its safe delivery, prevented her from slipping away while she still had the chance. A moment later the hiss of the curtain on the other side of the grille told her it was already too late for escape. A different voice spoke, so close it made her jump.

‘I am the emissary of Brother Peacock,’ it said. ‘Do you have a message for him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell it to me and I will make sure he gets it — in confidence.’

Dr Anata pulled a sealed envelope from her pocket. ‘I have a letter for him.’

‘Then bow your head before God and pray that he receives it.’

She did as she was asked. A small section of panelling slid open to create a hatch between the two stalls. She reached down and passed the envelope through it. There was a slight tug as it was taken from her, then the hatch slid shut as quickly as it had opened.

‘When will Brother Peacock receive the message?’ she asked. But there was no answer. Whoever had taken the message had already gone.