The Sacred Sword

But he had to get away. He pressed his free hand to the door. Here goes.

He was just about to push it open when the man in the tan leather coat suddenly emerged from Room 12 and started striding quickly and purposefully across the snowy car park towards the reception lobby. He had the gun at his side.

Wesley backed away from the doors. He didn’t think the man could see him through the dirty glass, but he’d be here any moment.

Wesley ran back towards the reception desk, just managing to avoid the pool of blood. The other side of the desk was a door marked PRIVATE. Kat’s arm was draped across the folding hatch. Wanting to throw up at the touch of her dead flesh, he nudged her arm aside and then pressed through the hatch and burst through the door, closing it behind him with jittery haste before the man in the brown coat stepped into the lobby.

He found himself in a poky office. Its cobwebbed sash window overlooked a backyard littered with snow-covered garbage bags and pieces of broken furniture. Beyond a ramshackle fence he could see the highway snaking away into the distance. He threw open the window, clambered up on a chair and shoved the case through the gap before scrambling through after it. He landed painfully on the snowy concrete the other side, snatched the case up and kept moving as fast as he could. His heart was in his mouth as he staggered through the backyard to the fence, fully expecting the muffled clap of a silenced pistol behind him and a bullet burning a hole in his flesh.

But no bullet came. Wesley managed to drag himself and the case over the fence and belted across the snow towards the highway. Twice he slipped and fell as he scrambled over the piles of dirty slush at the side of the road, glancing in terror over his shoulder. His breath was coming in wheezing gasps now as he stumbled on. For the first time since the invention of the mobile telephone, he wished he had one so that he could call for help.

He couldn’t run much further. Any second now, the killers would cotton on to his escape. They’d get in their vehicle and come after him. Bundle him in at gunpoint, and it would all be over.

The deep bellow of air horns blasted his terror away. He whirled around at the edge of the road and saw the massive grille of an eighteen-wheeler truck looming over him as it slowed down with a sharp hiss from its airbrakes. Wesley threw down the case, waved his arms frantically and stuck out his thumb. ‘Help me,’ he wheezed. ‘Help.’

The driver beamed a gap-toothed grin down at him from the cab.

‘You lookin’ for a ride, old timer? Then climb aboard.’

Chapter Nine

By the time Simeon was back from his church business, darkness had fallen and it was nearly time to set off for the evening meal at the Old Windmill. The three of them were in the vicarage’s hallway, on the verge of heading outside to the Lotus, when the phone rang.

‘It had better not be the bloody archdeacon again,’ Simeon said, picking up. ‘Oh, it’s you, Bertie … really? Gosh, that didn’t take you long … Yes, he’ll be delighted. We can come and pick it up right away.’

They definitely didn’t make them like Bertie any more. Ben couldn’t believe the difference in the Land Rover as he followed the Lotus’s taillights along the three miles of winding roads from the garage to the restaurant. The old mechanic had retuned Le Crock’s radio to a local station. Ben half-listened as he drove; then the entrance of the Old Windmill appeared through the trees and Ben parked beside the Lotus in the floodlit car park.

The place was aptly named. The ancient stone windmill itself stood silhouetted against the starry sky, while the restaurant was a modern building with large windows overlooking the surrounding woodland. Ben’s hosts led him inside, into the bar area where a smiling waitress greeted them with ‘Hello, Vicar; hello, Mrs Arundel,’ and led them through a doorless archway into the busy restaurant area. The place was decked out in colourful Christmas lights and glittery decorations, with an enormous tree in one corner. The dozen or so tables were cosily laid with rustic chequered tablecloths. Bing Crosby’s version of Hark, the Herald Angels Sing was playing over the speakers on the walls.

‘Good thing I booked in advance,’ Michaela said over the buzz of chatter. ‘Think we must have got the last table.’

‘Damn,’ Simeon muttered suddenly, patting his pockets. ‘I think I left my mobile in my other trousers.’

‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be needing it tonight, darling,’ Michaela said, with a discreet roll of the eyes to Ben, as if to say, ‘See what I mean?’

As the three of them crossed the restaurant, there was a chorus of ‘Hello, Vicar’ from a group of middle-aged women clustered around a heavily drinks-laden table in the corner near the archway. Simeon waved back at them. ‘The ladies’ badminton club,’ he whispered to Ben.

‘My husband is a big hit with them,’ Michaela said. ‘Especially with Petra Norrington.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘It’s true. She adores and venerates you. Thinks you’re gorgeous. Look at her eyeing you from behind her wineglass. Like a peroxide spider.’

‘Nonsense,’ Simeon said.

They took their seats at the table. Ben had his back to the archway and the bar area beyond it. To his right, a broad expanse of window overlooked the car park and the woods in the background.

The waitress took their orders for drinks. Michaela wanted white wine, Ben asked for a medium glass of house red. ‘No wine for me,’ Simeon said. ‘I’m afraid I might have a migraine coming on if I touch alcohol tonight.’

‘Again?’ Michaela frowned.

They ordered dinner – roast duck for Ben, on Simeon’s recommendation. Michaela went for poached salmon steak. Service was efficient, and the food was excellent. As they ate, occasional peals of laughter erupted from the ladies’ badminton club table behind Ben. Simeon sipped his mineral water and looked pensive while Michaela reaffirmed her complete conviction that they were in for a white Christmas.

Ben wondered what it was Simeon had wanted to tell him earlier. He was sure he’d get to hear it later, back at the vicarage that evening over a glass of whisky or two.

They’d finished their main courses and were into their desserts (plum duff for Simeon, sticky toffee pudding for Michaela, while Ben opted for some cheese and crackers to go with the last of his wine) when out of the corner of his eye Ben noticed a dark BMW come rolling in across the car park, its headlights sweeping the windows. The BMW parked across from the Lotus and Le Crock. The driver’s door opened. A tall figure of a man climbed out and made his way towards the building and into the bar area. By then, Ben had already forgotten about him, and went on listening to Simeon talking about the planned new satellite TV series that he’d been offered the job of hosting.

‘He’s being too modest again,’ Michaela said. ‘It’s quite a big thing. The television company are investing millions in it and it’s such an honour that they picked Simeon to present it.’ She reached across the table and clasped his hand.

‘As long as it helps to spread the word, that’s all I care about,’ Simeon said. ‘I’m not interested in the money. Every penny of it’ll go the same way as the money my father left me, helping to restore old churches. So many of them are being left to rot these days.’

‘Until they get turned into McDonalds drive-throughs,’ Michaela snorted. ‘Sign of the times. You know I had to scour the whole of Oxford just to find a set of Nativity Christmas stamps? All I could find anywhere were jolly snowmen and reindeer and cards saying “Happy Holidays”. It’s the rise of the militant atheists, I’m telling you. They want to secularise the whole world.’

‘Well, maybe we can help to turn the tide,’ Simeon said. ‘The television series will be a big step forward, that’s for sure.’

‘When do you start filming?’ Ben asked.

‘Middle of February. The producers are still wrangling over a name for it.’

‘I think Christianity Today sounds pat,’ Michaela said. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Ben.

Before Ben could offer any suggestion, he was distracted by a camera flash that lit up the room. One of the badminton club ladies, the skinny-looking woman with the leathery fake tan and pearls who’d been ogling Simeon earlier, had stood up to take snaps of the party group. ‘Smile!’ she called out over the din.

‘Oh, no,’ Michaela muttered as the woman swayed up to them, camera in hand. ‘Here she comes. Hi, Petra.’

Petra Norrington’s eyes sparkled as she approached the table and sidled up to Simeon. Ben saw Michaela’s face darken.

‘That’s a beautiful dress, Michaela,’ Petra said, her glance still lingering more on Simeon, before shooting discreetly across at Ben. Ben looked away and smiled to himself.

‘Thank you,’ Michaela said, just a little coolly. She introduced Ben as an old friend. Petra’s eyes sparkled some more.

‘And where’s that handsome young devil of a son of yours? Coming home for Christmas?’

‘He’s in Cornwall, with his friend Robbie,’ Michaela said.

‘Oh,’ Petra said, with a look of disdain. ‘That place.’

Simeon looked at Michaela and cocked an eyebrow. ‘I thought he was coming straight home from New Zealand.’

‘I told you he had other plans, darling,’ Michaela reminded him patiently.

‘Cornwall? Back to that derelict old farm? What’s he want to go there for?’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Michaela said. ‘It’s just a bit run down, and he enjoys being there with his friends.’

Simeon gave a disapproving grunt.

‘Can I take a pic of you all?’ Petra broke in, brandishing her camera like a gun. ‘It’s for the club’s Christmas album.’