The Lazarus Vault Part 15

'She's seen something.'

From the deep pocket of his fur coat, Blanchard took what looked like a miniature radio and turned it on. Through a burst of static, it began to emit a regular low-pitched tone. When he pointed it towards where the bird was hovering it grew louder.

'The bird has a radio beacon attached to its leg. If we lose sight of it, this will help us find it.'

The falcon hovered, flapping its wings against the breeze to stay in place. Ellie squinted at the sky. The air was so clear she could see everything: the black feathers under its wings and the fleck of white at its breast; the curved point of its beak. She almost imagined she could see its eyes, scanning the air. Waiting, waiting And down. It happened so fast Ellie didn't even see the prey. The falcon swooped and vanished behind the trees.

'Come on!' Blanchard shouted. In an instant they were running across the field, staggering through the deep snow. Blood rushed in her ears: the wind, the crunch of snow, the baying of the hound. They scrambled over a fence and pushed through a hedge into the copse. Blanchard waved to his right.

'The trees disrupt the signal. It is better if we keep apart.'

She veered away through the virgin snow, pus.h.i.+ng into the undergrowth. She crossed a narrow stream, tripped on a buried tree-root and just caught herself on the trunk of a birch.

You'll never find it like this. She stopped, resting her hands on her thighs to ease the cramp, breathing hard. Heavy branches creaked under their coat of snow; a robin called. Away to her left she could hear distant barking. And somewhere ahead, not far off ...

There. The trill of a bell, like a sleigh harness.

Moving more slowly now, Ellie crept through the trees. The bell grew louder. She peered round a bush.

The falcon sat triumphant on the grey carca.s.s of a goose. The goose's wings had cratered the snow like a bomb blast, though it lay still now. The falcon leaned over, mewling softly as it pecked out the bird's heart. It was very clean the only evidence of death were three drops of blood spattered on the snow, so cold and precise beside the corpse.

Ellie stared at them. She suddenly felt dizzy. The snow dazzled her, so bright that the drops of blood seemed to lift off it and swim in front of her eyes. She thought she'd never seen such a colour.

Through her daze, Ellie heard another trill. It was such an alien sound it took her a second to realise it was her mobile phone. She fumbled it out of her pocket.

'Eleanor? It's Mrs Thomas. From No. 96.'

Ellie knew her: a short woman who lived down the road from her mother, with round cheeks and a terrier. But why ?

'I knocked but you weren't at home. I got your number from your mother's bag. I didn't know if you were down or if you were spending Christmas somewhere ... Such a shock. Such a terrible thing.'

She was babbling, talking around something too awful to come at directly. Ellie stared at the falcon gobbling the heart out of the bird it had killed.

'What's going on?'

Mrs Thomas was saying something about ambulances, about hospitals and doctors and whether she'd be all right. Her words made no more sense to Ellie than the falcon's mewl.

'Who?' But she already knew.

Snow s.h.i.+vered off a cl.u.s.ter of branches as Blanchard pushed into the clearing. He held the radio receiver like some sort of remote control, pointing it at the bird. He looked at it with delight, something almost approaching rapture, then saw Ellie.

'What has happened?'

From down the mountain and across the sea, a voice in her ear said it's your mother.

Saint-Lazare's plane was in Vienna for maintenance and a storm had closed the runway. Ellie spent the night at the airport and took the first flight next morning, a budget airline filled with screaming families and returning skiers. The cabin blazed aggressive colours; it smelt of sweat, old sunscreen and fresh beer. Two rows back, a child was sick all over the floor. At Bristol, she waited an hour for the skeleton-staffed airport to produce her baggage.

No trains were running on Boxing Day. Ellie took a cab from the airport all the way to Newport forty miles that cost almost a hundred pounds. She stared out of the window at the tired city, the few high-rise towers that struggled above the skyline and the tangled attempts at public art. She hadn't been back since she started at Monsalvat. She'd forgotten how grey it was.

To enter a hospital, even as a visitor, is to surrender yourself as if the only way to manage so much human suffering is to build something incomprehensible to humanity. The Royal Gwent was no exception. The moment Ellie stepped through the doors she became a captive: to unwritten schedules and rules, Byzantine hierarchies that never came to a head. Even the architecture seemed designed to dislocate. She remembered something Blanchard had said in the vault about time becoming s.p.a.ce. By the time she reached the room in the stroke unit, both time and s.p.a.ce had compacted into a fluorescent-lit void.

Her mother lay in a curtained-off corner of a four-bed ward. There was a window, but the only view it offered was a brick wall. Her mother couldn't even see that. Her eyes were closed; there was something subtly asymmetric about her face, though Ellie couldn't say what. Needles and tubes probed her body, while screens and monitors brought second-by-second news of what was happening under the skin.

Ellie sat and fished out the box of Swiss chocolates she'd bought at the airport. She laid them on the plastic bedside table.

'She can't eat at the moment.'

A doctor had appeared, a tall man with fair hair and a smile that offended Ellie.

'What happened?' Ellie heard the crack in her voice and realised how close she was to falling apart completely. 'I'm her daughter,' she added.

'She went to church on Christmas morning. Apparently, she'd gone to light a candle after the service when she collapsed.'

Ellie could imagine the scene. The grey austerity of Saint David's, whose vicar would never allow a Christmas tree inside his church. The white-haired ladies they were mostly ladies drinking their Christmas morning sherry, the news going through them like a panicked flock of birds. Father Evans pus.h.i.+ng through, calling for calm. The ambulance in the churchyard. How long did you have to wait for an ambulance on Christmas day?

'They brought her straight here. She hasn't regained consciousness yet.'

'Will she ...?'

Ellie couldn't finish the sentence. Her mind rebelled; her imagination refused to supply the necessary possibilities.

'I don't know. Her signs are good. It depends if there's any, ah, underlying damage.'

He means brain damage, Ellie thought dully. She looked at her mother's face again, the thin bones and sharp creases. In a horrid way, she looked more at peace than Ellie could ever remember seeing her.

The doctor gave a subtle glance at the clock on the wall.

'She's in the best possible place. We'll take good care of her, I promise.'

Ellie didn't know how long she sat with her mother. The doctor said it might help to talk, and so she spoke. Halting and awkward, often tearful honest in a way she'd never dared when her mother could hear. She told her about Doug and his poem; about Blanchard and the ring he'd given her; about the cities she'd visited and the places she'd stayed. She described Saint-Lazare's fairy-tale castle, and the dead goose with its blood so bright on the snow. It made her realise how little there was in her life any more that wasn't connected to the bank. Sometimes her thoughts drifted away; she didn't know she'd stopped speaking until uncounted minutes had pa.s.sed.

Visiting hours ended. Ellie made her way out of the hospital, trailing her suitcase down the corridors like guilt. I should have been here. She'd found a set of house keys in her mother's handbag. With nowhere else to go, she went home.

Ellie slept in her mother's bed that night. As soon as she woke, she phoned the hospital. No change, better or worse. They told her it was a Sunday: no visitors until the afternoon. She picked through the impractically formal clothes in her suitcase until she found a pair of jeans and a woollen jumper. The house was freezing, and when Ellie went to have a shower the water wasn't much better than ice.

With vague memories of a tank in the loft, Ellie unhooked the ladder in the ceiling and clambered up. A sign nailed under the rafters warned that the joists wouldn't support her weight, though perhaps that was just because every inch already had to contend with the ma.s.s of boxes stacked as high as the roof would allow. The hot water tank, she thought, lay somewhere at the back.

There was no way through. With a sinking heart, Ellie pulled on one of the boxes nearest to her. The old tape holding it together was brittle and dry: the moment she touched it it snapped like rice paper. The box fell open, spilling papers and photographs across the floor.

Ellie wanted to cry in frustration. For a second, she imagined walking away and checking into a hotel downtown: abandoning this cold, broken past for functional anonymity. But something in the sprawl of old doc.u.ments caught her eye. It was a photograph of her mother, younger than Ellie could ever remember her, with long straight hair and a skirt so short it made Ellie cringe. She was standing in front of a cathedral with her arm around a man: the camera must have snapped just as something distracted him, for his head had turned and he was staring off-camera. He looked handsome in profile, with strong features and a deep, questioning look on his face.

Aneurin Stanton. Ellie recognised him at once, though she'd only ever seen half a dozen photographs of him. She turned over the photograph and saw her mother's small neat handwriting, efficient as ever.

Bressanone, Italy March, 1987.

So far as she knew her mother had never left the country, never even had a pa.s.sport.

Curiosity took hold of her. She delved into the boxes, sorting through the papers. It reminded her of the data room in Luxembourg due diligence on an unfinished life. Two lives, in fact, for among the bank statements and electricity bills was a fair sampling of Ellie's past. School photographs and exercise books; drawings and paintings; report cards, certificates, school concert programmes. And slipped among them, the faintest shadows of a third life that had defined them both. An army discharge certificate; an old life-insurance policy; postcards from the continent. She'd never imagined her father travelling so much. The weather is fine. I've seen some beautiful things. Not much luck here. I love you. Nye.

She looked at her watch. Past twelve visiting hours would start soon. She gave up on trying to get to the hot water tank and steeled herself for an icy shower. There was one bundle of papers left in the box she'd been working on. On top, tucked under the rubber band, was what looked like an unused airline ticket. Ellie pulled it out, wondering why the journey had never happened.

The ticket was for a British Airways flight from London to Munich. February 20th 1988.

She felt a wave of sadness as she realised why the ticket had never been used.

Aneurin Stanton: 12th May 1949 19th February 1988.

Except the name on the ticket wasn't Aneurin Stanton. It was John Herrin.

XXIV.

Normandy, 1136 Jocelin stands in the doorway holding the burning brand. The flames spit and hiss like a demon; his face is etched with fury.

He raises his sword. Ada's nearest the door, and I think in his rage he'll cut her down just to get to me. Instinct takes over. I s.n.a.t.c.h a spear from the rack on the wall and lunge at him. He dodges the blow the way Gornemant taught us, twisting away, but the tip catches a fold of his tunic and flings him back, into the s.p.a.ce where the stairs drop away. He falls down the stairs, thudding and clattering on the treacherous spiral, his sword ringing like a dropped coin. The torch goes out.

I put an arm around Ada's shoulder and hug her to me, trying to impress the urgency.

'If you stay here, Guy will kill you.'

She nods. I take her hand and lead her down the stairs, feeling my way with the b.u.t.t of the spear. We find Jocelin in a heap on the next landing, blood oozing from a wound in his skull. I don't stop to see if I've killed him. Somebody must have heard the noise.

But no one's raised the alarm yet. We reach the bottom of the stairs and creep across the courtyard to the stables. I find a groom curled up in a stall and shake him awake. He rubs the straw out of his eyes.

'Jocelin had an accident a fall in the dark. I have to go to Guy. Saddle my horse, and the grey palfrey.'

I leave him and run to the gate, while Ada goes inside to fetch some things. I feed the watchman the same half-truth, and together we crack open the gate wide enough for a horse to pa.s.s. I glance at the buildings, wondering if Ada will come. What if she's changed her mind?

Ada emerges dressed in a stout travelling dress and cloak, with a small bundle tied over her back. Whatever misgivings she has, she's mastered them for the moment. Her face is invisible under the hood: I can't guess what she's thinking. She puts something cold and sharp in my palm.

'Don't forget these.'

My spurs. The groom buckles them on around my boots. He sees Ada climb into the grey mare's saddle and gives a bewildered stare. Has he begun to wonder why the house is so dark, so quiet, if Jocelin's in such distress?

'She needs to be with her husband.'

We slip out the gate. The moon's strong, lighting our way. The rhythm of the horse under me calms my nerves. Ada rides beside me. Her hood blows back and her hair flies behind her. I gaze across the fields where we practised our swordplay and made mock charges. Past the orchard, where I told Ada the tale of Tristan, and the low-roofed barns where we met by night. These places have been my world for the past six years. It's a strange thought that I'll never see them again.

I feel free, but I know it's an illusion. I saw the look on Jocelin's face. If he's alive, no power on earth will stop him coming after us.

XXV.

Newport, South Wales Nothing had changed at the hospital except the staff. Two nurses were dressing the bed, rolling her mother first one way and then the other, like a corpse. Ellie couldn't watch; she waited outside the curtain. A sign on the wall reminded her that she should switch off her mobile phone. At least it would save the battery. In the last few weeks, it had been running down surprisingly fast.

When the nurses had gone, Ellie took up her vigil. She'd brought the old postcards from the attic and she read them aloud, giving life to a voice she'd never heard. She hoped her mother could hear, that somewhere behind that still face she was remembering happier times. What was Dad like? Ellie wondered. In her eyes, he'd only ever been a source of sadness to her mother. It was strange to think of them happy together. Like most children, she couldn't imagine her parents having an existence without her.

The hospital closed early on a Sunday. With a stab of guilt, Ellie realised she almost felt glad. It had only been twenty-four hours, but she was already sick of the hospital, the low light and random interruptions and long hours of nothing. Was this how she'd spend the rest of her life?

The moment she got home, she found herself climbing back to the attic. She looked at the flight coupon again, half-hoping she'd imagined it. But the name was still there. John Herrin.

Now that she knew what to look for, she went through the loft systematically. She found her old school atlas and plotted her father's travels using the postcard dates and places, ticket stubs, any receipt in a foreign currency. She looked for anything to do with John Herrin, anything to do with London and the Underground, any references to a tubby man called Harry. Working in libraries on her dissertation, she'd trained herself to disconnect the a.n.a.lytical half of her brain, to inventory the goods without appraising them. Only when she had all the pieces would she let herself think about how they fitted together.

At half-past midnight she was done. The hot water tank stood revealed at last. Her clothes smelled of dust, her arms and face itched from rubbing the rockwool insulation. She found the switch on the tank and treated herself to a long shower, lingering until the hot water supply started to fail again. She rummaged out a tin of soup and some cheese biscuits from her mother's cupboards and made herself a late supper she hadn't eaten all day. Only then did she examine the evidence she'd acc.u.mulated.

She had the atlas. A scattering of dots marked across the double-spread Europe, trips taken every two or three months from 1984 through 1987. The furthest east was Istanbul; the furthest west Santiago de Compostela, but most of the dots cl.u.s.tered between the Rhine and the Seine, the fault line where France and Germany had pushed against each other for centuries, throwing up statelets like Belgium and Luxembourg in their tectonic struggle. Another string of dots ran along the Alps, from northern Italy to southern France. Several cl.u.s.tered in Switzerland around Lausanne.

Then there was the plane ticket for John Herrin to which she had added a hotel bill and an application to Somerset House for a duplicate birth certificate, both in the same name.

Finally there was the letter, typewritten on thick cream paper, inviting John Herrin to a job interview on Thursday November 22nd 1987. The letter that made Ellie gasp when she saw it.

The Director, Mr Vivian Blanchard, would be delighted if you could visit him to discuss possible career opportunities at the Monsalvat Bank.

London Ellie couldn't believe anyone used phone boxes any more. But, like Cliff Richard and Harvey's Bristol Cream, they still seemed to exist. Huddled inside the gla.s.s box on the corner of Moorgate and London Wall, she was glad for it. She knew Monsalvat could monitor the calls from her phone she'd signed a piece of paper that let them do just that. Until two weeks ago, she hadn't imagined she'd have anything to say worth listening to.

The phone rang and rang until an answering machine kicked in. Ellie looked at the card Harry had given her in the gardens in Brussels a phone number with a London prefix, and a scrawled message. If no answer, leave a message for Harry from Jane.

'Hi Harry, this is Jane.' She stammered for something to say and couldn't think of anything. 'Give me a call.' But he wouldn't call on her mobile, and there was no phone at the flat.

A car drove by, flooding the phone box with light. Ellie turned away. Could it be the Bentley? She tried to catch a glimpse, but it was already nothing more than a pair of red brake-lights glaring back at her.

She looked at her watch. In Newport, the hospital reception desk would close in ten minutes. Hoping no one was watching, she stepped out of the phone box and got out her mobile. A soft voice, as familiar and unworldly as the talking clock, told her the same news it had told her every day for a week. No change.

All she could do was wait.

In most of the City, January was one extended hangover from the year before: slow days, long lunch breaks and early finishes. Even the junior a.n.a.lysts sometimes made it home before eight. But at Monsalvat, the phones rang and the corridors hummed and the e-mails flew about as quickly as ever. Ellie found out why on the Friday after New Year, when Blanchard called her into his office.

'How is your mother?' he asked at once.

'Stable. Still unconscious.' She didn't meet his eye. Each night when she went back to the Barbican, she held her breath for fear the Bentley would be waiting outside. Each night, it wasn't there. It was almost as if Blanchard could smell the reluctance that had come over her. She'd barely even seen him in the office.

'You are satisfied with the care she has? She is getting everything she needs?'

'As much as you can expect.'

'She has family to visit her?'

'Not really.'

Blanchard toyed with his cufflinks. 'I was speaking to a friend of mine, a doctor. He is an expert in stroke recovery, perhaps one of the four or five best in the world. He has a private hospital near Harley Street. He is willing to accept your mother as a patient, if you like.'

Ellie shook her head. 'That's so kind but we'd never afford it. My mother doesn't have any insurance.'

'The bank will pay.' Blanchard leaned forward over his desk, staring so hard Ellie couldn't look anywhere else. 'I know you do not want charity nor would I. But you must do what is best for your mother. When she comes out of her coma she will need intensive therapy. The Health Service is a machine; one life is nothing to them. Especially in winter. For the care your mother needs, London would be better.'

She couldn't argue; she knew he was right. But she couldn't agree not because she was proud, but because she was terrified. Bringing her mother to London, to stay in Blanchard's hospital tended by Blanchard's doctors, would be surrendering her into his power.

Blanchard misread her doubts. 'You forget, I have an interest in this too. I do not want you to suffer unnecessarily. It will be easier for you if you do not spend half your life on the train between here and Newport. Better for your mother if you can visit her every day. For coming out of a coma, I am told, the presence of loved ones is very important.'