Читать книгу The Ben Hope Collection - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 46

Ben tried to move his legs across the bed. He’d been lying here long enough.

It was tough going, an inch at a time. The pull on his injured muscles was agonizing. He clenched his teeth as he gently lowered his feet to the floor and slowly stood up. His shirt had been washed and neatly laid out for him on a chair. It took him a long time to dress.

Through the window he could see the village rooftops and the hills and mountains beyond rising up to the clear sky. He cursed himself furiously for letting this situation happen. He’d underestimated the dangers right from the start of this job. And here he was, stuck in this backwater, hardly able to move or do anything useful, while a dying child needed his help. He grabbed his flask and took a deep swig. At least this is something I can do. He wished he had a whole bottle, or maybe two.

Then he remembered Fulcanelli’s Journal. He bent stiffly and fished it out of his bag. He lay on the bed with it, leafing through the pages, and resumed his reading.

3^rd September, 1926

It has finally happened: the pupil has challenged the master. As I write, I can still hear Daquin’s words ringing in my ears as he confronted me today in the laboratory. His eyes were blazing, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

‘But master,’ he protested. ‘Aren’t we being selfish? How can you possibly say it’s right to keep such important knowledge a secret when it could benefit so many people? Don’t you see the good that this could do? Think how it would change everything!’

‘No, Nicholas,’ I insisted. ‘I am not being selfish. I am being cautious. These secrets are important, yes. But they are too dangerous to reveal to just anyone. Only the initiated, the adept, should ever be allowed to have this knowledge.’

Nicholas stared at me in fury. ‘Then I can see no point in it,’ he shouted. ‘You are old, master. You’ve spent most of your life searching, but it’s all for nothing if you don’t use it. Use it to help the world.’

‘And you are young, Nicholas,’ I replied. ‘Too young to understand the world you want so much to help. Not everyone is as pure of heart as you are. There are people who would use this knowledge to serve their own greed and their own purposes. Not to do good, but to do evil.’

On the table beside us was the ancient scroll in its leather tube. I picked it up and shook it at him. ‘I am a direct descendant of the authors of this wisdom,’ I said. ‘My Cathar ancestors knew the importance of preserving their secrets, at all costs. They knew who was seeking them, and they knew what would have happened if they had fallen into the wrong hands. They gave their lives trying to preserve this wisdom.’

‘I know, master, but…’

I interrupted him. ‘This knowledge we have been privileged with is power, and power is a dangerous thing. It corrupts men, and attracts evil. That is why I warned you about the responsibility I was giving you. And don’t forget–you swore an oath of silence.’ I hung my head in sadness. ‘I fear I have revealed too much to you,’ I added.

‘Does that mean you’re not going to tell me any more? What about the rest? The second great secret?’

I shook my head. ‘I am sorry, Nicholas. It is too much knowledge for one so young and rash. I cannot undo what is already done, but I will not take you any further until you have proved greater wisdom and maturity.’

At these words, he stormed out of the laboratory. I could see he was on the edge of tears. I, too, felt a knife in my heart knowing what had come between us.

Ben heard a soft knock at the bedroom door. He looked up from the Journal as the door opened a crack and Roberta’s face appeared.

‘How are you feeling now?’ she said. She looked concerned as she came in carrying a tray.

He closed the Journal. ‘I’m OK.’

‘Here, look, I prepared this for you.’ She laid a bowl of steaming chicken soup on the table. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’

‘How long was I out of it?’

‘Two days.’

‘Two days!’ He took a slurp of whisky, wincing at the movement.

‘Should you be drinking, Ben? You’ve been on antibios.’ She sighed. ‘At least eat something. You need to get your strength back.’

‘I will. Can you kick over my bag? My cigarettes are in it.’

‘Smoking isn’t good for you right now.’

‘It’s never good for me.’

‘Fine. Have it your own way. I’ll get them for you.’

‘No, just–’ He moved too abruptly and pain shot through him. He leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes.

She reached down. As she rummaged around in the bag, a small object fell out and landed on the floor. She picked it up. It was a tiny photograph in a silver frame. She studied it, wondering what it was doing in there. The photo was old and faded, creased and worn at the edges as though it had been carried for years in a wallet. It was a picture of a child, a sweet little girl of about eight or nine with blond hair. She had sparkling, intelligent blue eyes and a freckly face, and she was smiling at the camera with an expression of open happiness.

‘Who is she, Ben? She’s lovely.’ She looked at him and her smile faded.

He was staring at her with an expression of cold fury she’d never seen before.

‘Put that down and get the fuck out of here,’ he said.

Father Pascal saw the look of anger and hurt on Roberta’s face as she came downstairs. He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Sometimes when a man is in pain, he lashes out and says and does things he does not mean,’ he said.

‘Just because he’s injured, that doesn’t excuse him for behaving like a bas-’ She caught herself. ‘I was only trying to help him.’

‘That was not the pain I was referring to,’ Pascal said. ‘The true pain is in his heart, his spirit, not in his wounds.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I will speak to him.’

He went into Ben’s room and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Ben was lying there staring into space, clutching his flask. The whisky was dulling his pain a little. He’d managed to retrieve his cigarettes, only to find the packet almost empty.

‘You do not mind if I join you?’ said Pascal.

Ben shook his head.

Pascal was quiet for a few moments, then he spoke gently and warmly to Ben. ‘Benedict, Roberta has told me something of your occupation. You have a calling to help those in need–a noble and commendable thing indeed. I, too, have a calling, which I carry out as well as I can. I must say it is less dramatic, less heroic, than yours. But the purpose the Lord has for me is nonetheless an important duty to fulfil. I help men to release their suffering. To find God. For some, that simply is to find peace within themselves, in whichever form it may come.’

‘This is my peace, Father,’ muttered Ben. He held up his flask.

‘You know it is not enough, that it will never be enough. It cannot help you, it can only hurt you. It drives your pain deeper in your heart. The pain is like a poisoned thorn. If it is not released, it will fester like a terrible wound. And not one that may be cured by the simple application of penicillin intended for a goat.’

Ben laughed bitterly. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

‘You have helped many people, it seems,’ said Pascal. ‘Yet you continue on your path of self-destruction, relying upon liquor, this false friend. When the joy of helping others has faded, does the pain not return soon after, and worse?’

Ben said nothing.

‘I think you know the answer.’

‘Look,’ Ben said, ‘I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me. But I’m not interested in sermons any longer. That part of me died a long time ago. So with the deepest respect to you, Father, if you’ve come up here to preach to me you’re wasting your time.’

They sat in silence.

‘Who is Ruth?’ Pascal asked suddenly.

Ben threw him a sharp glance. ‘Didn’t Roberta tell you? The little girl who’s dying, my client’s granddaughter. The one I’m trying to save. If it’s not too bloody late.’

‘No, Benedict, that is not who I meant. Who is the other Ruth, the Ruth of your dreams?’

Ben felt his blood turn to ice and his heart quicken. With a tight throat he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There isn’t any Ruth in my dreams.’

‘When a man sits through two nights with a delirious patient,’ Pascal said, ‘he may discover things about him that might not be openly discussed. You have a secret, Ben. Who is Ruth–who was Ruth?’

Ben let out a deep sigh. He raised the flask again.

‘Why don’t you let me help you?’ Pascal said gently. ‘Come, share your burden with me.’

After a long silence Ben started talking quietly, almost mechanically. His eyes were staring into space as he played the familiar, painful images back in his mind for the millionth time.

‘I was sixteen. She was my sister. She was only nine. We were so close…we were soulmates. She was the only person I’ve ever loved with all my heart.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘She was like the sunshine, Father. You should have seen her. For me, she was the reason to believe in a Creator. This might come as a surprise to you, but at one time I was going to become a clergyman.’

Pascal listened carefully. ‘Go on, my son.’

‘My parents took us on a holiday to north Africa, Morocco,’ Ben continued. ‘We were staying in a big hotel. One day my parents decided to go to visit a museum, and they left us behind. They told me to take care of Ruth and not to leave the hotel grounds under any circumstances.’

He paused to light his last cigarette. ‘A Swiss family were staying in the hotel. They had a daughter about a year older than me. Her name was Martina.’ Talking about it for the first time in years, he could remember it all perfectly. He saw Martina’s face in his mind. ‘She was great-looking. I really liked her, and she asked me out. She wanted to visit a souk without her parents being there. At first I said no, I had to stay in the hotel and look after my sister. But Martina was going back to Switzerland the next day. And she said that if I went with her to the souk, when we got back she’d…anyway, I was tempted. I decided it would be OK to bring Ruth along too. I figured that my parents would never know.’

‘Go on,’ Pascal said.

‘We left the hotel. We wandered around the market. It was crowded, full of stalls, snake-charmers, all those strange sights and music and smells.’

Pascal nodded. ‘I was in Algeria, for the war, many years ago. A strange, alien world, for us Europeans.’

‘It was a good time,’ Ben said. ‘I liked being around Martina, and she kept holding my hand as she was looking at all the stalls. But I kept a close watch on Ruth. She stayed right by my side. Then Martina saw a little silver casket she liked, to keep jewellery in. She didn’t have enough money, so I said I’d buy it for her. I turned my back on Ruth while I was counting the money. It was only for a moment. I bought the present for Martina, and she hugged me.’ He paused again. His throat was dry. He went to take another swig from his flask.

Pascal stopped his arm, gently but firmly. ‘Let us leave deceitful friends out of this for the moment.’

Ben nodded, swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know how it could have happened so fast. I only took my eyes off her for a few seconds. But then she was…gone.’ He shrugged. ‘Just gone, just like that.’

His heart felt like a huge bubble ready to burst. He put his head in his hands, shaking it slowly from side to side. ‘She just wasn’t there any more. I never heard her cry out. I didn’t see a thing. Everything around me was normal. It was as though I’d dreamed the whole thing. As though she’d never existed.’

‘She had not simply wandered off.’

Ben took his head out of his hands and sat straighter. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a lucrative trade, and the people who take them are expert professionals. Everything that could be done was done–police, consulate, months of searching. We never found a trace.’

The bubble burst. He’d held it back for so long. Something was pierced inside him, a sense of gushing. He hadn’t cried since those days, except in his dreams. ‘And it was all my fault, because I turned my back on her. I lost her.’

‘You have never loved anyone since,’ Pascal said. It wasn’t a question.

‘I don’t know how to love,’ Ben said, collecting himself. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was really happy. I don’t know what it feels like.’

‘God loves you, Benedict.’

‘God’s no more a friend to me than whisky is.’

‘You lost faith.’

‘I tried to keep faith then. At first I prayed every day that she’d be found. I prayed for forgiveness. I knew God wasn’t listening to me, but I kept on believing and I kept on praying.’

‘And what about your family?’

‘My mother never forgave me. She couldn’t stand the sight of me. I couldn’t blame her. Then she went into a deep depression. One day her bedroom door was locked. My father and I shouted and beat on it, but she wasn’t answering. She’d taken a massive overdose of sleeping-pills. I was eighteen, just starting my theology studies.’

Pascal nodded sadly. And your father?’

‘He went downhill fast after we lost Ruth, and Mum’s death made him worse. My only consolation was that I thought he’d forgiven me.’ Ben sighed. ‘I was home on vacation. I went into his study. I can’t even remember why. I think I needed some paper. He wasn’t around. I found his diary.’

‘You read it?’

And I found out what he really thought. The truth was, he hated me. He blamed me for everything, didn’t think I deserved to live after what I’d brought on the family. I couldn’t go back to university after that. I lost interest in everything. My father died soon after.’

‘What did you do then, my son?’

‘I can’t remember much about the first year. I bummed around Europe a lot, tried to lose myself. After a while I came home, sold up the house. I moved to Ireland with Winnie, our housekeeper. Then I joined the army. I couldn’t think of what else to do. I hated myself. I was full of rage, and put every bit of it into my training. I was the most disciplined and motivated recruit they’d ever seen. They had no idea what was behind it. Then, in time, I became a very good soldier. I had a certain attitude. A certain hardness. I was wild, and they made use of that. I ended up doing a lot of things that I don’t like to talk about.’

He hesitated before going on, and his mind filled briefly with memories, images, sounds, smells. He shook his head to clear them. ‘In the end I realized the army wasn’t what I wanted. I hated everything it stood for. I came home, tried to get my life back together. After a while I was contacted to find a missing teenager. It was in the south of Italy. When it was over and the kid was safe, I realized that I’d found what I wanted to do.’ He looked up at Pascal. ‘That was four years ago.’

‘You found that by returning missing people to their loved ones, you were healing the wound caused by the loss of Ruth.’

Ben nodded. ‘Every time I brought one home safe, it drove me on to the next job. It was like an addiction. It still is.’

Pascal smiled. ‘You have been through much pain. I am glad you trusted me enough to speak of it, Benedict. Trust is a great healer. Trust and time.’

‘Time hasn’t healed me,’ said Ben. ‘The pain gets duller, but deeper.’

‘You believe that finding the cure for this little girl Ruth will help you to cleanse out the demon of guilt.’

‘I wouldn’t have taken this assignment otherwise.’

‘I hope you succeed, Ben, for the girl’s sake and for yours. But I think that true redemption, true peace, must come from deeper within. You must learn to trust, to open your heart, and to find love within yourself. Only then will your wounds heal.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ Ben said.

Pascal smiled. ‘You have already started out on your path by confessing your secret to me. There is no salvation in burying your feelings. It may hurt to draw the poison from the wound–at such times we come face to face with the demon. But once it is brought to the surface and released, you may find freedom.’

Wax from the candle dripped onto Ben’s hand as he crept into the church of Saint-Jean. The door was never locked, not even at two in the morning. His legs were still weak and shaky as he made his way up the aisle. Shadows flickered all around him in the empty, silent building. He fell to his knees in front of the altar and his candlelight shone on the gleaming white statue of Christ above him.

Ben bowed his head and prayed.

The trail was leading Luc Simon south. It was easy to follow–it was a trail of bullets and dead men.

A farmer in Le Puy in mid-France had reported shots heard and two cars involved in a chase on rural roads. When the police found the field where the gun battle had taken place they’d discovered three dead men, two wrecked cars shot to pieces, weapons and spent cartridge cases lying everywhere. Neither car was registered to anyone, and the BMW had been reported stolen a couple of days earlier in Lyon.

More interestingly, inside the other car, a silver Peugeot with Paris plates, they’d found prints that matched Roberta Ryder’s. Among the many spent cases found in the grass were eighteen 9mm empties that had come from the same Browning-type pistol as those found in the Mercedes limo and at the scene of the riverside killings.

Ben Hope might as well have carved his name on a tree.