The Sin Eater(80)
He paused at the intersection of two roads, suddenly unsure where he was going, then remembered that of course he was going out to Canning Town, to get to Cerise before Colm killed her. No, that was in Colm’s time – Cerise had been dead for a hundred years and nothing Benedict could do would help her—
The clock chimed again – two single chimes – and with the sound the compulsion returned. He had an hour to get to Canning Town. Could he do it? Surely he could. Here was the Tube entrance.
In the tube he still felt odd – not weak exactly, but not entirely in control of his mind. Was it Colm again, pulling him even deeper into that long-ago world? He had no awareness of Colm’s presence, but it was vital to remember he was in his own century and Colm and Declan had lived a hundred years ago.
At Oxford Street, where he got off to switch to an eastbound train, there seemed to be some kind of disruption. All the other passengers had alighted and seemed to be heading, very purposefully, for a different station. Benedict hesitated, then followed them, because usually if there was a diversion on the Underground, somebody always did know or had heard an announcement that the rest had not picked up. There was a long brick-lined tunnel, at the end of which echoing steps led down to a grim vaulted station smelling of something that Benedict, reaching back into childhood memories, identified after a few moments as soot. I’m going back, he thought. I’m going back into my own childhood. Or am I going even further back . . . ? He had no idea if this prospect terrified him or excited him, but when a train rattled into the station he got in without hesitation, and sat in a corner, turning up his coat collar against the cold. This had to be the maddest journey in the history of the world, but he could not get rid of the compulsion that he could somehow get to Cerise before Colm did – that he could somehow prevent Colm killing again. That was the maddest thing of all, of course; you could not unmake history. He studied the other passengers covertly. They all looked fairly ordinary, but the lighting was dim and most of them were so muffled up against the cold they could have been from any era. The few females in the carriage wore hats, but even this was not remarkable these days; girls wore all kinds of trendy pull-on hats in winter.
As the train jolted along, Benedict leaned over to wipe moisture from the window with his scarf, trying to read the names of the stations, but unable to see anything other than brick tunnels with the occasional thread of light from above. The dreamlike quality of the journey intensified, and this time it began to feel like one of those horror films where the newly dead were transported to some kind of judgement place. But this was so ridiculous a concept he refused to give it any credence. Would this slow train never reach its destination?
It was just after half past two when it pulled into the station. Was this Canning Town? Yes, there was a sign on one of the walls. Benedict had been expecting a large station – he thought it was an interchange with National Rail and also the Docklands Light Railway. But it looked as if London Underground really were diverting passengers and as if they had opened up one of the oldest underground stations they had. There was an old-fashioned booking hall, and grimy brickwork, interspersed with elaborate iron scrolls. I believe I really have gone back, thought Benedict, looking about him. No, that’s absurd. It’s this wretched condition – the alter ego taking over. I’ll just take a look round, then I’ll go home. He dared not think he might not be able to get home.
Outside the station he again had the feeling that everything was displaced. He also had the odd impression that the sky was lower than it should be. Or was it simply that it was a dark afternoon and the thick mist was still everywhere?
It was then that he saw something that seemed to split his head in two all over again. The streets were crowded, but ahead of him was a man wearing a long dark overcoat, like an old army greatcoat. The deep collar was turned up to hide his face almost completely, but when he half turned his head Benedict saw him in profile. Colm, he thought. It really is him. And he’s got her with him – Cerise.
He thrust his way through the people to get nearer. He was positive it was Colm, and that it was Cerise with him, although she was not quite as Benedict had imagined: she was more slightly built and he had not thought her hair was that colour. Colm was not exactly carrying her, but he had one arm round her and she was leaning against him. Anger rose in Benedict at the disinterest of the crowds. Couldn’t anyone see she was being forced to go with him?
As he crossed the road and went after the two figures, a church clock somewhere close by chimed the quarter hour.
Fifteen minutes to three. And at one o’clock Cerise had said she would give Colm a couple of hours to respond.
Michael had not been able to get rid of the memory of Benedict Doyle saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.
Because we both know who’s inside that house, he had said in the voice that was so eerily not his own.
Michael refused to believe that something malevolent was inside Holly Lodge, waiting to pounce on Nell. This was part of Benedict’s multiple personality thing; it was not real. But the chess set was real, said his mind. Fergal McMahon seems to have been real, as well. And Nicholas Sheehan was real too; he was ordained in 1874, and the event was recorded.
It was midday and Michael’s tutorials were over for the day. He had intended to spend the afternoon preparing some notes for his second years, focusing on the Victorians’ slightly contradictory custom of summarily dismissing servants who transgressed the mores of the day – usually by getting pregnant – but then helping organizations dedicated to what they termed fallen women. He wanted the students to find examples of this ambiguous attitude in the literature of the period; there were plenty of examples for them to home in on.