A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (24 page)

“Will you be going to church today Auntie
?” Harold asked. She was
renowned for her talking and Harold hoped getting her going would
lighten the mood. His father used to say she never shut up and that was
what had sent Uncle Peter to his grave, just so he could get a rest.

“No not today. Are you still fine with the idea of your mother coming to
stay with me?”
She asked, stuffing another pastry into her mouth. She
was a larger woman and it seemed the loss of his beloved father and her
distraught sister did little to dampen her appetite.

“Yes, I think it will do her good
.” Harold said, thankful at the
thought of his mother being away from the house.
“What about you?”
His aunt asked, meaning no doubt for him
to go with his mother and stay with her. It allowed her to feel important
in the family but Harold had no interest in going. He had to finish what
he had started with William.
“I have Muriel, I’ll be alright here.”
He said, hoping she wouldn’t
ask any more questions. Harold could tell she wanted to pry by the glint
that flashed across her eyes as she looked over at Muriel, who was
warming her hands by the fire, but Harold was thankful of her reserve
that his aunt managed to refrain from asking.
“
We better get going soon. I want to get us home before the city wakes.”
She said reaching for the dregs of wine in her glass. The liquor
cupboard had been drunk bare overnight. It had been stocked rather
well and Harold couldn’t help but feel that people hadn’t just used the
wines and spirits to soften the pain, but instead had taken the liberty to
use the excuse to drink to excess.
“
Let me grab your coats.”
Harold replied, keen to see the last of
his guests leave so he could think about heading up to bed. The
goodbye was swift, his mother, still in shock, said nothing to him as he
kissed her on the cheek. He waited and watched as they climbed into
the black carriage and waved them off before stepping back inside and
closing the door. Harold rested his back against it and closed his eyes,
far too tired to even make the trek upstairs. Harold sat down on the
floor and listened as his aunt’s coach rattled off southwards out of
Greenway. Harold would later be so glad that they left that way instead
of heading north. Moments after the last clip clop sound of their
departure, his eyes were snapped open as the sound of a woman
screaming somewhere just north of his door echoed into the night. His
body found an energy pocket from somewhere, and Harold stood and
threw the door open. With no shoes on, Harold ran through the
puddles, striding as wide as he could and covered the few hundred
yards to where the scream had come from in seconds. The noise had
actually come from a young girl who now sat cuddled up against a
neighbour’s front door, sobbing. She did not look up as Harold
approached and he soon saw why. Ernest and Neill lay dead in the
street. The pavement was stained red and a morbid trail led into the
centre of the road, making it look as if it had rusted.
Harold did not know who to go to first, the crying child or the
thugs. Self-preservation drove him to examine them first. He had not
forgotten their faces from his hospital bed and it didn’t take much to
realise they were there for him. Harold went to Neill who was slumped
against the front wall of the Briers, an elderly couple who had lived
down the street from them for a few years. Neills’s neck had been
ripped open and Harold did not need to check his pulse to know that
he was dead. Stepping over him, trying not to think too hard about
what had happened, Harold checked on Ernest and noticed not only
the same gaping neck wound but also that his neck had been snapped
in two. His hand was a mess, bone poking through the skin and blood
congealed over it making it look like sliced bacon left too long in a
stewing pan. Again, Harold did not need to check his pulse but for
some reason he went closer. His tiredness having drained any emotions
Harold may have had left, he pulled Ernest onto his side, and began to
search him. Harold almost cut himself as his hand pressed into his
chest pocket where a broken bottle of absinth rested. There was
something made of paper in there and Harold pulled it free quickly,
putting it in his own pocket. Harold would read it later when he didn’t
have the eyes of the neighbours’ all over him. His hand was about to
move lower to check the rest of Ernest’s pockets when a door opened
and Mr. Briers came out holding an old worn rapier, probably his
weapon of choice in his younger days. He looked at Harold expecting
some kind of explanation.
“They are dead
.” Harold said lamely as he hovered only inches
over Ernest. Yet again, Harold was the first on the scene of a crime but
thankfully he had the best of alibis this time and they would not be able
to pin this on him even if they were still looking for him for the other
murders.
“
I can damn well see that. Do you know what happened?”
Mr Briers
demanded as his wife led the young girl inside.
Harold never did find out why such a young girl was on the
streets so early in the morning. That was a secret between her and the
women she called Granny.
“
I don’t know.”
Harold lied. He didn’t know for sure but he had
a good idea who was to blame, William. Harold began to walk away,
only now realising his bare feet were soaked and frozen.
“
Hey wait.”
Harold heard Mr. Brier shout from behind him
but Harold did not stop until he was home. He went straight to the
kitchen, washed the blood from his hands before settling by the fire to
warm his feet. Harold chose to sit in his father’s old chair. Muriel was
sitting in his chair; the concern was clear on her face.
“
What’s going on out there?”
She asked him. Harold had been
surprised she didn’t follow him into the kitchen when he first came
back in. Surely the sight of his blood soaked hands should have raised
some questions, but then again, maybe a man coming in covered in
blood was not as much of a shock to a woman of Muriel’s profession as
it would have been to him.
“
There’s been another murder, two in fact. I doubt it’ll be long before the
guard are called. It’s early so many of them will still be sleeping their hangovers off but
there’s the odd one who still remembers what being a city guard is all about and they’ll
come to investigate.”
Harold said, closing his eyes. He had known he
wouldn’t have long to mourn his father but he had barely been in the
catacombs of the church a mere twelve hours and once again, fate had
thrown Harold into the scene of another gruesome act of the horror
that was becoming his everyday life.
“So are we going to have to run? We can always go back to mine again.”
Muriel offered up. Harold didn’t say anything in reply; he didn’t know
what to do. They had only just moved out from Muriel’s back to his
father’s home, in the hopes that Harold would get a chance to take
revenge on the O’Brien’s, and now they laid dead outside in the street;
the house once again became a mausoleum to his father. Harold pulled
the piece of paper from his pocket that he had found in the dead thugs
pocket. It was damp and stunk of alcohol, but it was still readable.

‘To the O’Brien family, I have tasked my altar boy with finding you in the
hopes that you can do me a service, a service that will benefit us both. Reverend Paul
Augustus.’

Harold read and almost dropped the paper in shock and his
mouth hung open. Harold read the name repeatedly. Reverend Paul
Augustus. The man who had buried his father, the priest that Harold
had been standing next to yesterday with the acid in his stomach
churning like soar milk telling him something was wrong. Harold had
been face to face with someone who had dealings with the O’Brien’s. It
all fell into place for him at that moment; it was like looking at the box
while doing a puzzle. All the little things that Harold had missed fell
into place. The fact the William had been buried at Saint Anne’s and
that his body must have been dug up there. The way the priest looked
at Muriel, the blackness to his eyes, there was something unsettling
about him. The letter connecting the O’Brien’s to him made as
irrefutable evidence that Paul had dealings with the underworld. A
priest should have no need to contact criminals. He had something to
do with it all. He was either involved in it all in some way or he knew
who was. Harold had to go back to the church to find him. Harold
could rest later.

“
Muriel. I have to go somewhere. Wait here for me. If the guard come,
light a candle in the front bedroom upstairs and I’ll know not to come back. I won’t
be long.”
Harold said trying to hide the fear from his voice.

“
What’s on that bit of paper? Tell me what’s going on?”
She begged,
not missing the change in his demeanour after reading the note.
“
I think the priest has something to do with all this. The two murders
outside were the thugs that attacked my father. With them dead I only have to watch
out for the guard but they’ll no doubt be here soon so I have to go to Saint Anne’s now.
I have to find out what the priest knows, if he knows about William or what’s behind
all this. It might help prove my innocence or, if nothing else, help me find out who
started this.”
“
Just come back safe Harold.”
Muriel said, before turning away
from him and walking towards the stairs. Harold slipped on his shoes
with his feet still damp, but he did not care as he headed out, leaving
Muriel to try and sleep. It was too risky to take her with him, for all
Harold knew William could be at Saint Anne’s waiting for him.

Harold left in such a hurry he forgot his coat and was soaked
through before he got to the end of the road. He briefly thought of
going back to change, but the chance of the guard being on their way
was too great, and he couldn’t get caught now that they finally had a
lead that might start answering some questions. Harold battled
onwards, twitching as the ice-cold droplets dripped from his sodden
hair down his spine. As he turned out of Greenway heading towards
Saint Anne’s a guard wagon rolled past him, steam rising from the lead
horse’s nose in the biting cold. Harold hoped they did not see him.
They did not stop and as soon as the coach rattled past, Harold
quickened his step almost breaking into a run.

The cobblestones slid past underfoot like waves on the ocean.
The city was just starting to wake up and Harold jogged past families
dressed in their best as they headed off to morning mass. It did not
dawn on him until he was halfway to Saint Anne’s with his legs ready to
buckle under him that there would be a sermon on when he got there.
Harold would not be able to rush in and confront Paul. He would have
to wait at the back or he would risk being lynched by devout
Sacellumists. The cold was starting to sting and Harold felt the
goose-bumps spreading up and down his arms so he quickened his
pace to a sprint. His legs complained even more and his chest started to
wheeze but it kept him warm or less cold at least.

A strong wind blew across Celebration Square as Harold
turned the corner into the Common Road. The granite statues that had
been put back up during William’s lordship looked black, and the
pigeons that normally defaced them, hid below the legs of the
sculptures trying to keep out of the worst of the weather. The rain was
starting to ease, but it was so damnably cold Harold was worried his
shirt would actually freeze to his back. Harold did not want to go the
same way as his father and just hoped that with all the bad luck he had
been having, he was due some good and would avoid the flu. By the
time he got to the fence that he Harold had consumed had burnt from
his system but his legs were still wobbly and he leant against a metal
fence to hold himself up while he caught his breath.

Harold could hear the sound of singing from inside and could
tell the service was underway. He had not had the chance to take in the
beauty of the church on his last visit, his mind being preoccupied by the
weight of his father’s casket resting on his shoulder. Panting for breath,
Harold spared himself a moment to take in the splendour. Three
distinct sections made up the church itself. The left section was a tall
pointed building with a large square base and contained a grand,
stained glass window showing pictures of religious idols. Below the
window, a pure white plastered arch that masked the doorway inside.
The central section was a smaller version of the last with a white arch
and two small stained windows. It looked, to his mind, like a child
stood next to its father and Harold wondered if the architect had
planned it like that. The huge spire on the right climbed skywards and
Harold could just make out the cross on its top. The church was huge
and had taken years to complete. They had started building Saint
Anne’s in the year 107ab and construction was still ongoing
periodically as the numbers of the faithful Sacellum seemed to grow in
the city. It was a massive structure and had taken hundreds of people to
construct the huge stone towers even with the strange machines
borrowed from the Dwarves. It was the biggest building erected since
the Dragon overlords were pushed from the city, and rivalled the
Handson castle. It should have taken centuries for the cathedral sized
church to be built, but had been done in only decades. This made
Harold wonder just what splendour the Dwarves had hidden in the
deep roads of the under dark away from the eyes of humans if their
machines could create things like this so swiftly.

Sliding open the gate, which creaked with the effort, Harold
made his way to the large arch and slipped through the door, scuttling
like a scared crab as he made his way across the chequered floor to the
back pew. It was empty as were many of the other seats in the nave of
the church. Harold guessed the foul weather had kept all but the most
devout at home. Reverend Paul Augustus led the sermon from the
front of the church, backed by another collection of four stained glass
windows. The light shining behind him gave him a glowing halo even
in the grim weather. Harold sat and listened all the way through the
sermon, listening to how wonderful this creator god was. It annoyed
him. It’s not that Harold didn’t believe in the golden city in the sky or
disagree with the monks; after all, it was them who would, if anyone
did, push the demons back from the world. What annoyed Harold was
that with everything that had been happening to him, how could he be
so wonderful, this creator god who steered their fates? As angry with
the creator as Harold was at the end of the sermon, when it was time to
pray, he found himself down on one knee. Harold prayed that he
would make it through the day. He prayed that his mother would find
the strength to deal with her loss, and, mostly, Harold prayed for
Muriel.