Glasshouse - Charles Stross [138]
I begin to zone out. Fiore’s voice is hypnotic, his tone rising and falling in a measured cadence. It’s warm and stuffy in Church with the doors shut, and it seems Fiore isn’t going to divert from his sermon to condemn a sinner this week. For which I should be grateful—Fiore could have decided to wreck my score for what I did last week. Despite the warmth, I find myself shivering. He’s shown more forbearance than I expected. Should I follow his example, and instead of telling him about Janis, try to set her straight myself?
“. . . For remember, you are your brother’s keepers, and by the behavior of your brethren shall you be judged. Voyage without end, amen!”
“Voyage without end!” echoes the chorus. “Amen!”
We stand, and there’s another sing-along, clap-along number—this time in a language I don’t understand, about marching and freedom and bread according to the psalm book—and then the priest and his attendants leave the front, and the service is over.
I’m a bit disappointed, but also relieved as we file out of the Church into the bright daylight, where a buffet is waiting for us. Sam is even quieter than usual, but right now I don’t care. I snag a glass of wine and a plate with a wheatmeal and fungus confection on it and wander over to the vicinity of our cohort.
“Decided to settle down, have we?” asks a voice at my left shoulder. I manage to suppress a frown of distaste. It’s Jen, of course.
“I care for my neighbors,” I say, squeezing every gram of sincerity I can muster into it; then I make myself smile at her.
She beams back at me, of course. “Me too!” She trills, then glances round. “I’m glad Fiore was merciful today, though. I gather some of us might have been in for a rough ride!”
Sly little bitch. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I begin, but it’s impossible to go on because the Church bells have begun to ring. Normally they clang in a vague semblance of rhythm, but now they’re jarring and clattering as if something’s caught up among them. People are turning and looking up at the tower. “That’s odd.”
“Yes, it is.” Jen sniffs dismissively and begins to turn toward a nearby knot of males.
“I haven’t finished with you.”
“In your dreams, darling.” A broad grin, and she slips away.
Irritated, I look up at the tower. The door below it is ajar. Odd, I think. It’s not strictly my business, but what if something’s come loose? I ought to get help. I deposit my glass and plate with a passing waitron and walk toward the door, taking care to stay off the grass in my high heels.
The clashing and clattering of disturbed bells is getting louder, and there’s something dark on the front step, under the door. As I make my way to it I look down and an unpleasantly familiar stink infiltrates my nostrils, bringing tears to my eyes. I turn round, and yell, “Over here! Help!” Then I push the door open.
The bell tower is a tall space illuminated by small windows just below the base of the spire. The daylight spilling down from them casts long shadows across the beams and the bells that dangle from them, jostling and clashing above the whitewashed floor, staining the spreading pool of dark liquid. Spreading black, the gray of shadows, and a pale pendulum swinging across the floor. It takes a second for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness, and another second before I understand what they’re showing me.
Mick, of all people, is the one playing the endless atonal carillon that summoned me. It is immediately obvious that his mastery of music is involuntary. He hangs from a bell-rope by the ankles, his head tracing an endless pendulous circuit across the floor in twin tracks of blood. Someone has taped his arms to his body, gagged him, and rammed hypodermic needles