The Doomsday Prophecy

She snorted. ‘Do you? Listen to me. I want you to put that knife away. If I see it again I’ll put a bullet in your head. Is that completely clear to you?’

The man went quiet, staring at her sullenly.

‘They’ll get it out of her,’ she said. ‘They have other ways.’

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_52b1bd5d-1b08-5cef-83fe-00d3ecb7ffe5)

The Holywell Music Room, OxfordThat evening

Ben leaned back in the hard seat and watched as the audience trickled into the room. The acoustic amplified every sound, and people kept their voices down. He was in the back row and the place was filling up slowly, but he didn’t think the concert was going to draw a big crowd.

He’d spotted the flyer a couple of days before, and he was glad he was here. He wasn’t much of a concertgoer, but the idea of an hour of Bartók string quartets appealed to him. It was the kind of edgy music that made a lot of people restless and uncomfortable, but which he liked. It was moody and dark, introspective, a little dissonant, filled with a tension that somehow relaxed him.

The Holywell Music Room was tucked away down a winding side-street not far from the Bodleian Library. It wasn’t a big or opulent venue, just a plain simple white room with a low stage at one end and capacity for about a hundred people. The lighting was stark and the stepped banks of seats seemed to be designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. The programme said it was the oldest concert hall in Europe, and that Handel had played there in his time. There was a short blurb about the composer and the music, and a little paragraph on each member of the string quartet. They were all postgraduate music students, teaching and gigging their way through college.

The low stage had four plastic chairs, four music stands. The musicians were due out any second. Maybe they’d hold out a few more minutes, hoping more people would come in. But it didn’t look promising.

Ben felt, rather than saw, her walk into the room. He turned, and the first thing he noticed was her smile as she recognised him. The librarian from the Bodleian. Her sandy hair was down over her shoulders, and she was wearing a light jacket that hugged her figure. He laid the programme down on his knee as she came over to him.

‘Are you on your own?’ she said softly. ‘Mind if I sit here?’

His jacket was folded over the back of the seat next to his. He grabbed it and stuffed it down at his feet. ‘No problem,’ he said.

She sat, still smiling. She had a little bag, which she set down beside her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she whispered. ‘I’m Lucy, by the way.’

‘Ben.’

‘It says Benedict on your library card.’

‘Just Ben.’

She took off the jacket, and he noticed she was wearing the same crisp white blouse she’d been wearing when he’d first met her. ‘Been working late?’ he said.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’

He was about to reply when the musicians walked out onto the stage, carrying their instruments. There was a smatter of applause from the small audience as the two violinists, viola player and cellist settled themselves into their seats. They took up their bows, nodding to one another. Then the playing began.

As the edgy music filled the room, Ben became aware of Lucy’s perfume. From time to time she shifted in her seat and he felt her knee brush his lightly. He idly wondered why she’d wanted to sit next to him when the place was half empty. She seemed pleasant enough. He didn’t mind the company.

Sunset was falling as they left the Holywell and walked up the narrow street.

‘I enjoyed that,’ Lucy said.

‘Relaxing,’ he answered.

‘You think? It’s pretty intense.’

‘That’s what I find relaxing.’

‘Fancy a drink?’ she said.

‘Why not?’

The Turf was just nearby, a pub he remembered from years ago. They crossed the road and headed towards the sound of music and laughter. The interior was traditional – low ceilings, exposed beams, with a pitted wooden bar that looked at least two centuries old. The place was heaving with people. A contingent of Italian tourists were taking up several tables, making too much noise. Ben bought a double Scotch and a glass of white wine, and he and Lucy took their drinks out to a tranquil corner of the beer garden surrounded by old stone walls and climbing plants. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle.

Ben took out his cigarettes. ‘You mind?’

‘I’ll join you,’ she said. He gave her a light, and they clinked glasses. It seemed a little strange to him to be sitting there with her, yet at the same time she was easy to be with.

‘Great concert,’ she said. ‘Shame about the audience.’

‘I guess Bartók’s an acquired taste.’

‘If it had been Chopin’s greatest hits, or some frilly baroque thing, the place would have been packed out.’ She smiled. ‘So, Ben, are you a postgrad or what?’

‘Undergrad. Waiting to start my final year at Christ Church.’

She seemed surprised.

‘I know,’ he said, catching her look. ‘I’m old.’

‘You’re not old.’

I feel old, he thought. And tired. ‘I took some time out,’ he explained. ‘Did two years of my theology degree, long ago. Too long ago. Now they’ve let me back in to finish it.’

‘Career change?’

‘Definitely.’

‘What did you do before?’

He thought for a moment. Even thought about telling her the truth – then decided against it. ‘I was self-employed. Kind of a freelance consultant. Troubleshooter. Specialist stuff. I travelled around a lot.’

It was meaningless, the vaguest answer he could think of, but she seemed satisfied with it. ‘Career change would suit me too,’ she said.

‘You don’t like working at the library?’

‘It’s OK. But I want to paint. I’m an artist. The Bodleian job’s only a few hours a week, to help with bills. I’d go full time with the art if I could make a living out of it. But things are tight.’

‘Tough business,’ he said. ‘I hope you succeed. What kind of art do you do?’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘No, I am interested.’

She reached into her bag and brought out a business card. On one side was printed LUCY WILDE, FINE ART PAINTER and a phone number and website address. Ben flipped it over. The back of the card was printed with an abstract design, clean and geometric, a style that reminded him of Kandinsky. ‘This is one of yours?’

She nodded.