his excitement, he leaned forward.
‘That’s interesting. Because you’re a Dominican?’
Once more the other shook his head. His look was almost pitying.
‘Because I have done murder, dottore. Because I am a murderer for Christ.’
1
‘Come,’ said the voice, ‘let us bury our dead.’
Dominicain’s eyes snapped open. A group of men were towering above him, like silhouettes against the milky sky. All of them were cloaked in black, with black scarves round their faces. He recognized their kind at once: he’d watched them carry coffins to the death-pits. The only figures moving in a landscape of decay. The sight awoke a long-forgotten dread.
Becchini …
He tried to rise; his limbs would not obey him. Numbness soaked through every muscle. He was dimly aware of lying on his bed – but the bed itself had sunk into the ground. Walls of dark earth hemmed him in. He realized he was waiting in his grave.
‘No!’ he gasped, and fought to raise an arm. Anything to show them he was still alive. But his own flesh had disowned him. His mind felt like a broken egg: a sticky, mingled pulp of white and yolk. The worst thing was, he was aware of it.
The sinister becchini showed no interest in his struggles. Their eyes were blank above their muffling scarves. But as he tried to lift his head, he glimpsed another figure, further back. A young girl, wrapped in black as well – but her face was bare, her head uncovered. She had blue eyes, and hair like golden corn. He recognized the woman who’d been given charge of him. He tried to reach her with his stare; but she just dropped her gaze, and turned away.
A shovelful of earth was thrown on him. It lay there, cold and heavy on his chest. He couldn’t even roll to shake it off. Then the rasp of shovels really started; an avalanche of dirt came pouring down. The becchini worked in grim, relentless silence, blocking out the sky like carrion birds. He made to scream – and soil filled his mouth. He choked in helpless horror, and the world was blotted out.
‘What did he say?’ Claire frowned.
‘Sounded like bikini,’ murmured Richard with a grin. ‘They’re all the same, these fundy types. All bloody hypocrites.’
She glanced at him, then back towards the bed. John lay prostrate, fully clothed; still mumbling to himself. Slipping in, she checked his chart to see what was prescribed. The dose had clearly laid him out. Chemical cosh, she thought, and pursed her lips. She looked at Jan the cleaner, who had kept on working calmly by the window; then hung the chart, and straightened up again. Peering down at John. His face was sweaty.
‘Coming?’ Richard asked her from the doorway. Their break was ticking by, of course. She’d asked to just look in on John, on their way to the canteen. Pulling her cardigan closer, she turned to the door – then looked at Jan.
‘It sounded like Italian. Was it?’
Jan – Gianna – shrugged. Her face was thoughtful. ‘I think he say becchini. Many times.’
‘And what’s that mean?’
‘The gravediggers,’ said Jan; then shrugged again, and went on with her mopping.
2
How can I escape Thee? I go down to the grave, and Thou art there. And now he’d risen up again: still trapped within the tenements of Dis.
He’d read the works of Dante, but even Dante hadn’t dreamed of this. The great Infernal cities had their colonies on earth. This was one – a fortress of the damned. Men possessed by devils raved around him, while lost souls walked the corridors like corpses. And this must be his punishment: to be imprisoned here while still alive.
‘What’re you thinking, John?’ Claire murmured gently, sitting down to join him at the table.
He turned his head to look at her. Could somebody so beautiful be damned? Or did she have a demon’s grin, behind that sweet, false face? An instinct said to strike at her – to claw her flesh, and see. His fingers twitched; then lay still on the tabletop again.
‘Il mio nome è Legione,’ he said softly. She didn’t understand – or didn’t seem to. Dirty sunlight bathed them both. The Lost Ones shuffled back and forth, like guards.
Claire sensed someone moving up behind her. She kept her eyes on John’s for just a moment, then looked round. Prentice stood there, looking jittery. She smiled at him. ‘Okay?’
He nodded jerkily. ‘Wanna see John.’
‘Fine. I’ll leave you to it, then.’ Getting up, she glanced at John; still looking for a spark of empathy. But he’d gone back to studying the Bible on the tabletop before him.
She moved away, still watching. Prentice sidled up towards the table, as gingerly as someone paying homage to his lord. He’d been here for a fortnight – a schizophrenic, suffering from paranoid delusions. Among other things, he’d claimed that his landlord had tried to kill him – by injecting spiders with petrol, and sending them along the pipes like tiny firebombs. Prentice had related this with unblinking conviction: enough to send imaginary spiders up her spine.
He rummaged in his pocket now, and brought three cigarettes out. With deference he laid them on the table. John looked up solemnly …
‘How do, Sister.’
‘Mike.’ She knew his jovial voice before she even turned. ‘And how’re you today?’
He was sitting in an armchair, looking smug. ‘Cooking on gas, Sister. Feeling fine. Living life on the line.’
‘I’m not a Sister, Mike, I’m just a poor downtrodden staff nurse.’ She went across to join him. ‘You’re feeling good today, then?’
‘Cooking on gas …’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Soon be out of here, yes.’
Still wearing a reflexive smile, she glanced back towards the table. John had claimed his gift of cigarettes. He was murmuring to Prentice, who looked spellbound. She felt the faintest twinge of apprehension – as if watching a child making friends with a stray, grizzled dog.
‘Care to join me in a game of draughts?’ asked Mike.
‘Can’t today,’ she said. ‘I’m going early.’
He nodded. ‘Fair enough … Cooking on gas, feeling fine, living life on the line.’
I’ll give you bloody gas, she thought. It made her realize just how stressed she was, behind her smile.
Prentice left the day-room, with a covert glance at her. Perhaps he thought she had a spider up her sleeve. Or maybe John had warned him to watch out …
Now
