Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [53]
‘Oh,’ she said dismissively, as if I had mentioned the death of a butterfly. (But then, I reflected, why should she sound any more interested? Why 91
should Sands mean more to her than some mere dead insect? All that happens beyond the walls of her cell is largely unknowable, her own world extending little further than the barriers established and maintained by the deepest workings of her mind.)
‘Did you perchance hear anything unusual last night?’ I asked, keeping my eyes on my cards lest I concede some involuntary detail to Jones.
‘Scratching below the window,’ she said.
‘Did you investigate?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Oh, just screams,’ said Jones with the same casual tone that her voice adopted when discussing her superiority at cards.
‘But there are always
screams.’
‘Sands?’
‘Oh, probably. . . ’ She really seemed not to be interested, but smiled as she laid down her cards – a pyrrhic victory. She would say no more about what may or may not have happened, though she had at least implied that the night was less still and silent than Craig had indicated.
‘You seem to have forgotten,’ she said suddenly, moments later, ‘that we all scream at night.’
Extract from the Diary of the Reverend Mr William Macksey Friday 25th December 1903
Having overhead Mr Craig’s excited proclamation about the death at Mausolus I was not unduly surprised when Mr Fern came to visit me after the morning service. I asked him immediately about the arrangements for the burial of the body, and was told that the man’s nephew was being informed, and that Christie’s hope was to hold a small service as soon as possible.
I assured Fern that I would do my very best to make myself available for whatever dignified and Christian service Christie might have in mind, though my commitments at this time of year are, of course, many.
I thought of my dreams and visions and asked him further about the death.
The man muttered something about the dropsy, but seemed disinclined to elaborate.
I was still disturbed by Mr Craig’s horrified reaction to the death, and asked Fern about this. ‘Surely,’ I reasoned, ‘a hearty man like Craig, working where he does, must see death too often for it to worry him?’
I noticed Fern smile grimly. ‘Aye, but it’s not a pleasant place to be. It can rot your mind. I was not surprised to see Craig looking so troubled.’ I caught Fern staring at the Bible in my hand. ‘Does not the good book say, “The wages 92
of sin are death”?’
‘It does,’ I said, fascinated.
‘The sin of Adam, past hurts, working at a place like Mausolus. . . ’
‘Excuses,’ I said gently. ‘Each one of us is in the same boat when we face the Lord. Anything that is not the golden fire of holiness results in death.’
Just for a moment I could have sworn I saw in Fern’s eyes his own vision of God: not a burning, creative Love, but an old man with a cane, threatening to beat him for all eternity. And I knew – I have met enough men like Fern –
that his diseased logic runs thus: if one sin is enough to warrant such abuse, then he might as well wander down the glass-paved road of excess. I am well aware that with every step down the road, the pleasures increase – and the bodies pile up all around like stinking refuse, and the broken glass cuts further into your feet. This personal intimacy with the delights of sin I share with the fictional Prodigal. As the ‘good book’ says, ‘There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one. Their throats are open graves; their tongues practise deceit. The poison of vipers is on their lips. Their mouths are full of cursing and bitterness. Their feet are swift to shed blood; ruin and misery mark their ways, and the way of peace they do not know. There is no fear of God before their eyes.’
I dared to reach