war . . . strength unto God . . . thou art terrible out of thy holy places . . .’
A slight commotion. Scuffling feet; urgent voices; milling crowds behind us on the porch. A tight knot of people bursts from the shadows, demanding air, light, water, fire, help, anything. There’s a woman suspended between them, limp as a rag. Fainted, by the look of it.
‘Make way! Make way!’
‘A priest! Get a priest!’
‘She needs fanning! Somebody get a fan!’
‘Is she all right? What happened?’
About five thousand people press forward to have a look. Rockhead waves them back with his spear as someone – a relative? – succumbs to hysteria. You have to admit, the victim doesn’t look too well. Her face is the colour of raw tripe.
Heatstroke, probably. It’s like an oven inside that church.
‘Where does she live?’ (Rockhead.) ‘Does anyone know where she lives?’
‘She lives with him.’
‘I am her son. Her only son . . .’
‘Right.’ Looking around for Inc. ‘Kidrouk. You stay here. We need an armed escort on this one, or they’ll never get through the crowds. Hold your position. I won’t be long.’ (To the weeping relation.) ‘Calm down, she’s not dead.’ (To the white-faced son.) ‘We’ll take her home – or do you want to stop at Saint John’s hospital? It’s only around the corner.’
‘I don’t . . . I don’t know . . .’
‘Sergeant?’ Loudly, so he can hear me over the rabble. ‘Lord Roland says the hospital is full to bursting with sick refugees. He said so yesterday. It might not be a good idea –’
‘Home, then. Come on. And stay behind my back.
’ One thing you can say for old Rockhead – he certainly knows how to handle a crowd. It’s like watching Moses part the Red Sea, only Rockhead has to get in there and do it with his elbows. Straight through the middle, no ‘pleases’ or ‘pardons’, with the sick woman’s escort bringing up the rear. Quite fast, considering. And the bodies surge together again behind them.
‘. . . They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Sion, which cannot be removed, but abideth forever. As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about his people . . .’
The Patriarch, still droning on. Wonder if he’s noticed that his congregation is passing out from sheer boredom? Or maybe it isn’t boredom. Maybe it’s just his bad breath.
Everyone’s more interested in the victim now, anyway. Discussing her departure in low, respectful voices. Craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Rockhead’s upraised spearhead as it lurches out of sight.
Yawn, yawn, yawn. I wonder how much longer?
‘ Jerusalem hath grievously sinned!
’ Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘ Jerusalem hath grievously sinned, therefore all that honoured her despise her! Her enemies prosper, for the Lord hath afflicted her for the multitude of her transgressions!
’ God preserve us. A voice like fifty thousand fruit pedlars screaming in unison.
But where is it coming from?
‘ The adversary hath spread out his hand on all her pleasant things, for she hath seen that the heathen entered into her sanctuary! ’
There he is. A tiny old man. A tiny old man the size of a grain sack, with a beard like the drifting cobwebs you find in stables – full of fleas and straw and dried dung. A tiny old madman, all waving hands and staring eyes.
The sort of tiny old madman who isn’t going to shut up and sit still unless I knock him unconscious with something blunt and heavy.
I mean, wouldn’t you know it? Left in command for the space of two heartbeats and this has to happen!
Chapter 6
‘L et us lift up our hearts unto God in the heavens! We have transgressed and have rebelled! Fear and a snare is come upon us, desolation and destruction! ’
‘Be quiet!’
‘ Our end is near, our days are fulfilled, for our end is come! ’
‘Shut up!’
‘Push off!’
‘ The punishment of thine iniquity is accomplished, O daughter of Sion!
’
A slight commotion. Scuffling feet; urgent voices; milling crowds behind us on the porch. A tight knot of people bursts from the shadows, demanding air, light, water, fire, help, anything. There’s a woman suspended between them, limp as a rag. Fainted, by the look of it.
‘Make way! Make way!’
‘A priest! Get a priest!’
‘She needs fanning! Somebody get a fan!’
‘Is she all right? What happened?’
About five thousand people press forward to have a look. Rockhead waves them back with his spear as someone – a relative? – succumbs to hysteria. You have to admit, the victim doesn’t look too well. Her face is the colour of raw tripe.
Heatstroke, probably. It’s like an oven inside that church.
‘Where does she live?’ (Rockhead.) ‘Does anyone know where she lives?’
‘She lives with him.’
‘I am her son. Her only son . . .’
‘Right.’ Looking around for Inc. ‘Kidrouk. You stay here. We need an armed escort on this one, or they’ll never get through the crowds. Hold your position. I won’t be long.’ (To the weeping relation.) ‘Calm down, she’s not dead.’ (To the white-faced son.) ‘We’ll take her home – or do you want to stop at Saint John’s hospital? It’s only around the corner.’
‘I don’t . . . I don’t know . . .’
‘Sergeant?’ Loudly, so he can hear me over the rabble. ‘Lord Roland says the hospital is full to bursting with sick refugees. He said so yesterday. It might not be a good idea –’
‘Home, then. Come on. And stay behind my back.
’ One thing you can say for old Rockhead – he certainly knows how to handle a crowd. It’s like watching Moses part the Red Sea, only Rockhead has to get in there and do it with his elbows. Straight through the middle, no ‘pleases’ or ‘pardons’, with the sick woman’s escort bringing up the rear. Quite fast, considering. And the bodies surge together again behind them.
‘. . . They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Sion, which cannot be removed, but abideth forever. As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about his people . . .’
The Patriarch, still droning on. Wonder if he’s noticed that his congregation is passing out from sheer boredom? Or maybe it isn’t boredom. Maybe it’s just his bad breath.
Everyone’s more interested in the victim now, anyway. Discussing her departure in low, respectful voices. Craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Rockhead’s upraised spearhead as it lurches out of sight.
Yawn, yawn, yawn. I wonder how much longer?
‘ Jerusalem hath grievously sinned!
’ Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘ Jerusalem hath grievously sinned, therefore all that honoured her despise her! Her enemies prosper, for the Lord hath afflicted her for the multitude of her transgressions!
’ God preserve us. A voice like fifty thousand fruit pedlars screaming in unison.
But where is it coming from?
‘ The adversary hath spread out his hand on all her pleasant things, for she hath seen that the heathen entered into her sanctuary! ’
There he is. A tiny old man. A tiny old man the size of a grain sack, with a beard like the drifting cobwebs you find in stables – full of fleas and straw and dried dung. A tiny old madman, all waving hands and staring eyes.
The sort of tiny old madman who isn’t going to shut up and sit still unless I knock him unconscious with something blunt and heavy.
I mean, wouldn’t you know it? Left in command for the space of two heartbeats and this has to happen!
Chapter 6
‘L et us lift up our hearts unto God in the heavens! We have transgressed and have rebelled! Fear and a snare is come upon us, desolation and destruction! ’
‘Be quiet!’
‘ Our end is near, our days are fulfilled, for our end is come! ’
‘Shut up!’
‘Push off!’
‘ The punishment of thine iniquity is accomplished, O daughter of Sion!
’
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