Gethsemane Hall by David Annandale Page A

you?”
    “Because I don’t know why I want to stay. I just do.” Porter looked at the floor. “Everyone in town does,” he muttered.
    Gray almost missed the last sentence. He was trying to fend off the ice water that flooded his heart at the mention of irrational desire for the Hall. Run , said an instinct. Stay , said a stronger need. “I see,” he said, his voice as quiet as Porter’s.
    The other man looked up. They locked gazes. “I think you do, at that,” Porter said. “You’ll be staying, then.” When Gray nodded, he held out his hand. “Be well, then.”
    Gray shook. “Thank you,” he said, uncomfortable with the weight of meaning the exchange had taken on.
    He saw Porter outside. The barkeep walked as though fighting against an undertow, as if each time he lifted a foot, he might start walking backwards. His brow was shining with effort by the time they reached the drive. He was unhappy to be leaving. And yet, when he started his car and drove off, Gray saw relief loosen his features.
    Gray made himself an omelette for dinner. His evening was the same as the previous one, as if through repetition, he might make himself remember the experience, and not just the chronology, the next morning. He thought about moving to the master bedroom, but inertia called him back to his old room. He went to bed a little before midnight. This time he was able to change into pyjamas before he fell asleep.
    He didn’t sleep through the night. He sat up with a shout in total darkness. His eyes were wide against the nothing that surrounded him. His heart was a deafening kettle drum. He didn’t know why he was awake. He couldn’t remember dreaming, but he felt the aftermath of a jolting night terror. He reached out, still panicky-blind, fumbled with the bedside table, the table that felt like an unpleasant surprise in its familiarity since it had come to visit him in London before he had come to see it. He found the light and turned it on. The room looked back at him, poker-faced.
    His heart was slowing down, tempering its volume. He was very, very awake. He got out of the bed. He was prodded by the feeling of having left something undone. He couldn’t imagine what. He suspected the answer was nothing; he had forgotten nothing. He followed the discomfort out of the room, through the suite, back to the Old Chapel. He turned on the light and stood in the doorway. The nagging at the back of his mind had evaporated. See , he told himself, there’s nothing that needs doing now, for Christ’s sake. Go back to bed. He didn’t. He eyed the chapel. The stained glass window was painted black by the night. The space was illuminated by a low-wattage chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling. The light was a dim amber. Shadows were gathered spectators around the periphery.
    Gray eyed the centre of the room. His lips were dry, and when he tried to lick them, so was his tongue. Go on , he told himself . Follow the scientific method. You know it’s all bullshit, so prove it. He walked forward. There was no mark on the floor where he had collapsed, but he knew the exact spot all the same, and he eyed it, rabbit to cobra, as he approached. Humbug and bullshit , he thought, humbug and bullshit, mantra of reason . He stopped when he was one step away. Humbug , he thought. Grow up and get over this . He took the step.
    The grief slammed him to the floor again. It was so fierce it flooded out the terror that rose at its coming. Loss scourged him with barbed wire. He opened his mouth wide to howl his pain. Instead, he snarled. Lead grief transmuted into golden anger. The unfairness, the bloody-minded, capricious perversity of an all-loving god had him roaring and gave him strength. He didn’t crawl this time. He wouldn’t give the deity that satisfaction. He declared war and rose to his knees. Then he was on his feet, his hatred a molten, neon glow in his veins and behind his eyes. Crystalline revelation: revenge was the only