The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (36 page)

me and Tom’s mother you’ll have another two to deal with.”

“He’s lying, Brothers, he’s trying to frighten you.”

“I’m lying Jacob, am I? Does the name Tam Dalgleish mean anything to you?”

Jacob Moor shook his head. Ashley glanced around the temple. The Brothers were looking at each other. He noticed a few reactions; a gentle murmur reverberated around the room.

“He was the father of one of the boys you murdered. I spoke to him last week. He’s a Glasgow villain and his son was too. You murdered his son and now he’s on the warpath conducting his own investigation. He’ll be here soon, gentlemen, with more questions. He’s contacting the families of the other victims… your victims, gentlemen.”

“He’s lying, Brothers,” Jacob snapped.

“No, I’m not,” Ashley replied.”You’re the liar. Tom would never take drugs.”

John Markham raised a hand in the direction of Jacob Moor.

“Worshipful Master, permission to address the Lodge.”

Jacob Moor pulled at his collar, a bead of perspiration trickled down his spine. He looked across the void at John Markham and reluctantly nodded his head.

“A suggestion, Worshipful Master. With respect and not that I doubt your integrity, but why don’t we get Sister Claire down here to clarify the situation? He offered her the drugs, didn’t he? She can clear this accusation up straightaway.”

John Markham raised an eyebrow towards the Worshipful Master.

Jacob Moor remained quiet, thoughtful. Surely Claire wouldn’t let him down, why would she change the story now? Claire, the girl he’d controlled since she was a child.

Ashley interrupted his thoughts. “Get her down here, Jacob. What have you got to hide?”

Jacob Moor looked up, a confident smile flicked across his face. He looked over at the Brother, his Brother, standing guard to the door of the temple and nodded just once. The Brother produced a key from his apron, inserted it in the lock and pulled at the heavy door. It creaked as it opened and the whole Lodge listened to the footsteps as they gradually disappeared. The Brothers sat in silence for the two minutes in took for Claire Macbeth to be brought downstairs.

Jacob explained the accusation to a nervous-looking girl who stood attention-like in front of his throne. Jacob liked the way she stood, with respect. Respect for the temple, the Brotherhood, respect for her Master. That’s what he was… her Master.

“Tell the truth, Claire,” interrupted Ashley.

Jacob Moor frowned, nearly admonished the prisoner again but remembered John Markham’s words.

“All in good time, Mr Clarke, all in good time.”

He turned to Claire again. “Do you remember that night clearly?”

Claire nodded her head.”Yes, Worshipful Master, clear as day.”

“And do you remember calling me after you’d closed the bar?”

“I do, Worshipful Master.”

He had her in his power. Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir.

“And can you tell the Brothers exactly what you told me that night.”

She wasn’t sure exactly what was going on but her mind was racing. Jacob had been accused of setting up Tom Wilkinson. It was true. There were no drugs.

The enormity of the occasion slowly became apparent. Jacob hadn’t killed an undesirable: the boy was innocent, weren’t they all? She looked at Ashley Clarke. He looked terrible and she yearned to take him in her arms, wash the blood from his face and cleanse his injuries. She wanted to bathe him, immerse his strong body in hot water and tell him she loved him with all her heart.

But she couldn’t.

He hated her and who could blame him; she’d helped to kill his best friend.

She looked at Tom Wilkinson’s mother. Fear, anxiety. She looked into the soul of a broken woman.

Claire Macbeth could change it now, right this moment; she had the power to bring the organisation to its knees, she had the power to break the man sitting above her. The man who had held her prisoner for fifteen years, the man who treated her like a slave, a plaything, the man who’d prevented her from even opening a bank account or learning to drive. He’d taken and organised every aspect of her life, he’d manipulated and oppressed her.

He spoke again, gently this time, his voice was soft… soothing.

“What did you tell me that evening, Claire? What did the man do?”

She recalled the depraved acts Jacob had made her perform, and that first night as a fourteen-year-old when he robbed her of her innocence. She’d begged him to stop, it hurt so much, and he’d held his hand over her mouth as he grunted and groaned on top of her. It all came flooding back. He’d dominated her for as long as she could remember.

She’d tried to escape, get away from the hell she’d been living but he’d always prevented it.

Once… only once had she managed it with some level of success. She’d ended up in a squat in Leeds, turned to prostitution just to survive. She had no money, didn’t even have a national insurance number to claim benefits. She found she didn’t exist when she’d applied for a position at the local job centre.

It took him only three weeks to find her. He’d used the
network
as he called it. She would never forget that night. She’d been walking along a dimly lit street in the Chapeltown district of the city when a white transit van had slowed down beside her. Jacob sat smiling in the passenger seat and before she could turn and run two men had jumped out of the back and bundled her in. The driver and her two abductors took it in turn to rape her throughout the night as Jacob looked on. Eventually her body could take no more and she’d lapsed into unconsciousness.

When she’d woken she found herself back on the island in her very own comfortable bedroom, battered and bleeding. She was back home and knew at that very moment she would never escape her own private hell.

Jacob Moor acted as her nursemaid as she slowly recovered. Jacob Moor had helped her.

“Claire?”

She looked up at him then again at Ashley. Ashley caught the look on her face and he smiled and nodded his head.

“The truth, Claire,” he said.

She looked back at Jacob and opened her mouth.

“He offered me Ecstasy; put a packet in my hand.”

Jacob Moor breathed an inward sigh of relief. Ashley turned to Claire and shook his head.

“And you, Claire.” He sighed.

Claire looked in his eyes, the eyes which at that moment displayed surrender. She had been his last chance, his last throw of the dice and she’d let him down. Never before had she gazed into eyes like that: she expected to see hate and bitterness, but no. Just the eyes of a crushed man.

“Brothers.”The Worshipful Master looked around his temple. “From the horse’s mouth, so to speak. The undesirable offered our Sister drugs.”

He turned to Ashley

“Mr Clarke, your friend was a peddler of filth. He was vermin.” He turned to his congregation.”Gentlemen, this man has tried to drive a wedge between us. He tried but has not succeeded in destroying our organisation. He lied about the undesirable.”

He held two outstretched arms. “I am proud of you all, Brothers.” He looked at Claire Macbeth and lowered his voice a little.”And you, Sister.” He held out his right hand, pointed to a row of pews at the side of the room.

“You may take a seat, Sister, you are welcome to sit in on proceedings. It is now time to decide their fate.”

What an end. What a result, thought Jacob Moor as he took his seat and waited for his senior warden to distribute the coloured balls. He had to admit to himself he had been a little concerned at the prisoner’s outburst. His little speech had been quite convincing, a little too near the truth. And he’d been put on the spot. Markham had called his bluff. He had had no option but to call Claire Macbeth into the temple.

Claire Macbeth. Why did he doubt her? He gazed over to where she sat. How lucky he was to have this young lady pander to his every need. He reminded himself that it wasn’t luck. Luck played no part.

Claire Macbeth sat over the far side of the room in torment.

She could have stopped it right there and then. The look in Ashley Clarke’s eyes. And had she witnessed the briefest of brief smiles? Why? Why had he smiled, why had he looked at her in a way she had seen portrayed on the silver screen as two lovers looked at each other? Or had she imagined it? Was it all a figment of her imagination, the look, the murders, this kangaroo court, Jacob Moor and his twelve apostles?

Father Thompson, one of them. She’d begged him to stop it and he’d done nothing. He’d stood and hid behind the cross, his beloved church. She hated him with all her heart.

It was a bad dream, a nightmare and she could have stopped it right there and then and she’d done nothing. Nothing at all… and now the moment had passed.

The senior deacon stopped at Jacob Moor and handed him the two coloured wooden balls. Jacob met his stare, the deacon nodded and smiled. Jacob looked down at the two small balls in the palm of his hand as the Brother – his Brother – moved on to the next man.

Ashley glared across the room at Claire Macbeth. Never before had he so misjudged a human being. She’d had her chance. He’d been so sure as he’d met her eyes, so, so sure.

The senior deacon sat down, his bag was empty.

Ashley Clarke’s and Kate Wilkinson’s lives were hanging in the balance. The vote was about to commence.

It was an important part of the ceremony, a tradition that had spanned centuries. In the early days the vote, if negative, had always resulted in death. Jacob was proud he’d resurrected that policy from the Brothers long ago. That’s how it should be: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Jacob cast his eyes upwards, mouthed a silent prayer as the senior deacon began his second trip around the temple collecting up the votes.

Jacob reached into the sack and pulled out the first ball. He held the black ball aloft. The Brothers nodded their approval. Another three black balls followed and any nerves or doubts that Jacob Moor harboured were quickly dispelled.

His Lodge… his Brothers.

Another black ball and another. One more required for a majority decision. Jacob Moor’s hand trembled as he held the white ball upwards. One of his Brothers had let him down.

Jacob Moor, the Worshipful Master of the Lodge… betrayed.

He reached inside and picked out another three white balls, knew at that very moment that the Lodge was split.

His hand shook as he reached into the bag again. A half-hearted ripple of applause echoed through the temple as Jacob Moor held the black ball aloft. The black ball that signalled death.

But then, as Jacob Moor reached in his pocket for a black cap, he and his Brothers and Ashley Clarke and Kate Wilkinson became aware of a lone figure rising to her feet.

Six months later

Stephen Kyle stood in the packed number three Newcastle upon Tyne Crown Court with his head held low. He had been charged with the murder of Frank Short and had been on remand in Durham prison since his arrest. He’d tried to blame it all on Jacob Moor.

That was the grounds of his defence as it had been for all the other members of the Island Keepers. Dead men can’t talk and nor could they defend themselves.

Four white balls, a divided Brotherhood, a vote of no confidence in the Worshipful Master.

Claire Macbeth had stood and spoken to the assembled Brothers. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, racked with emotion almost on the verge of tears. The Brothers had listened.

Jacob Moor wanted to shout her down but somehow he kept quiet, somehow he realised the end had come.

She’d announced that there had, in fact, been no drugs and then turned to John Markham and disclosed that Jacob Moor and Stephen Kyle had murdered his beloved Uncle Frank.

Jacob Moor could have handled the situation if he’d just been given a chance. If he’d had the heart to speak out he would have convinced his Brothers including John Markham as he’d done many times before that Tom Wilkinson was a drug dealer and his Uncle Frank really had committed suicide. But then it had all gone horribly wrong.

Father Thompson fell to his knees crying as Claire sat back down and, as soon as Stephen Kyle looked into John Markham’s eyes, the terrified Brother bolted towards the temple door, desperately trying to escape the clutches of the still grieving nephew.

John Markham caught him as he fumbled with the heavy lock. Stephen Kyle was a slight man and Markham dragged him kicking and screaming by the neck to the centre of the room. He held him up, legs dangling like a tortured ballerina as he propelled his heavy fist into the man’s face. His nose popped like a balloon and a jet of blood splashed across the temple floor.

The unconscious man collapsed in a heap onto the temple floor and John Markham fell to his knees sobbing like a child.

And the questions began. Roddam first, demanding answers from the Worshipful Master and then another Brother and another until a crowd had gathered around the throne. Jacob Moor had held up his hands and an eerie silence ensued.

His Brothers had turned against him.

Jacob Moor tore his crisp white cotton shirt to expose his left breast. He held the handle of the sword down to the floor and the tip rested on his nipple. It wasn’t an unusual sight in the temple, the sword and exposure of the left breast, part and parcel of the ceremony to initiate a new Keeper. The Brothers looked on, a little unsure of what part of the ceremony was being re-enacted. Markham looked up from the temple floor. He knew what was about to happen, knew instinctively and could do nothing to prevent it, would do nothing to prevent it.