Monica spent the next few days trying to put her life back into some sort of order. The whole plague fiasco might have been dismissed in the press, but the neighbours seemed to feel differently. The usual London cold shoulder became positively icy, with an extra chill provided by several threatening letters. But Monica was determined not to crumble. She emptied the remaining wine bottles down the sink. She found the pack of cigarettes from the front garden and chopped them to pieces before she had time to smoke them.
The police made a few calls, ostensibly to apologise and check she was well, but the conversation always turned to Morris. He still hadn't been seen since they were arrested. His shop was empty and the Austin Allegro was missing from the garage. Their questions just made Monica realise how little she really knew about her husband, how he'd managed to avoid telling her details of his past life, and how she'd never bothered to ask.
Elvis spent the time trying to investigate what had happened to Mary. He went back to the library, he searched the internet and anywhere else he could think of. There was no reference to Mary Young. He remembered what she'd said about writing to him. He searched for letters or books. He scoured the attic, searched his room and the rest of the house, he looked up the chimneys, dug holes in the garden. He found nothing. But then why would he? He'd deserted her and left her to die. It just confirmed what he'd thought.
He searched the gravestones across the road. One by one he read the inscriptions, scraping off the moss and centuries of dirt and grime to read the carved words. He found no reference to Mary Young.
'Can't find what you're looking for?' asked a voice in the churchyard. Elvis turned around. It was the young vicar, his anorak collar turned up against the drizzle.
Elvis shook his head.
'You did a fine job young Elvis, saving all of those people.'
'No I didn't.' replied Elvis quietly. 'I ran away.'
'You did what you had to. You stopped another disaster in this city.'
Elvis felt the emotion building in his chest. He wanted to let it out with a scream, a cry. He turned his head away.
'Come on inside.' said the vicar. 'Come have a cup of tea.'
'But I don't understand. Why did you help us?' asked Elvis, taking the sweet tea from the vicar. 'Shouldn't you have called the police or something?'
The vicar laughed. 'You know I nearly did, when I first saw you hanging around the back of my church. Imagine what your local bobby would have said if he'd found that lot in the church hall!'
'But, don't you wonder where they came from? Doesn't it bother you?'
The vicar sipped on his tea. His mood darkened. 'I know where they came from Elvis. I know all too well. They weren't the first and sure as anything they won't be the last. And every time they come they bring more trouble. This was the worst yet.'
'What do you mean they weren't the first?'
'Look.' He got to his feet and pulled an old leather-clad book from the shelf. He blew off the dust and placed it with a heavy thud on the table. He carefully laid open the rigid pages. 'For centuries they've been coming, just in ones and twos usually. Look, here.' he pointed at ornate inked handwriting.
June 5th 1703. Two male apparitions seen at 28 Monnington Street, later at the church. Carried marks of The Black Death.
April 10th, 1741, one female apparition, at 28 Monnington Street. Later seen at the church.
'And look here. 1769, 1783, 1812, 1843, 1899, 1927, 1942, 1966. And they always seem to appear at 28 Monnington Street first.'
'But why?'
The vicar carefully turned the page. He showed Elvis a double spread of sketches, photographs and drawings. They were all of the same man, some just head and shoulders, some full body drawings in a suit and even holding a cane. He wore various period clothes but his face looked the same in every picture.
'Why, that's Morris!' exclaimed Elvis.
'Yes, I know. But look at the dates.'
The first sketch bore the words 'Mister W Jarvis of 28 Monnington Street, 1662' the next Mister Henry Thompson, 28 Monnington Street, 1748' then 'Mister Eric Stevens, 28 Monnington Street 1794'. And so it went on with different names and dates under images of the same man. Clipped to the page were several photographs, some were faded old black and white pictures, a couple were Polaroids and there was one modern colour shot with Elvis stood alongside his step-father. Each one bore a different date, a different name but the very same face.
'He tries to disguise himself. Changes his name, his looks. He's had lots of people stay there over the years and says they're family. He's even saying he's Jewish now to throw people off. But he's never moved from that house.'
'I don't understand.'
The vicar lifted the page over. 'And this man. Do you recognise him?' He showed Elvis a detailed coloured drawing of a Bishop, stood before an altar in full religious dress. Underneath it read 'The Bishop of Southwark 1508.' There was no mistaking the arrogant man from the Subaru.
'But what's it all mean?'
'Elvis! Elvis!' Monica's voice echoed through the church and into the vestry.
The vicar quickly closed the book. 'It means this has to stop Elvis. You must end it, else you'll never be safe. None of us will.'
Monica put a head around the doorway. 'Elvis! There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you. What are you doing over here?'
'Sorry Misses Klatzmann,' said the vicar, jumping to his feet 'It's my fault. We were having a cup of tea.'
'Well there's someone come to the house to see you Elvis.'
Elvis looked towards the vicar.
'Come on Elvis, he's waiting.' urged his mother.
The vicar reached out a hand to shake with Elvis. 'Listen to the old woman.' he whispered as he pressed something hard into Elvis's palm. Elvis looked down, He was holding the red stone. 'Good luck.'
'Elvis! How you goin' mate?' asked Henry, clasping Elvis's hand firmly.
Elvis shook his hand warmly in return. He'd thought about trying to track Henry down and find out what had happened, but he'd been too nervous about the prospects of bad news. Now he was here, it was good to feel the warmth in his greeting again.
'I'm fine.' replied Elvis 'really good.' he added, feeding from Henry's aura. 'How's Abit?' The moment the words came from his mouth, he wished they hadn't
Henry's expression changed. He tried in vain to mask the sorrow. 'He didn't make it.' he said softly.
'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Elvis couldn't hold back the tears. He dropped into the chair and covered his face with his hands.
Henry sat alongside. 'Oi, stop it!' he ordered. 'What you sorry for? Stop it! Stop blamin' yourself for everythin' that friggin' happens within a mile, you bloody idiot!'
'But, if I'd...'
'If? If nothin'! It's happened and we can't change that. Nothin' you did caused it.'
'How's Nya?'
'Sad, angry. She's gone to stay with her parents for a bit.'
'Is she coming back?'
'Yeh, I think so. After it happened and all the shit that went after, she wanted us to move back to Sudan.'
'Sudan! You going?'
'Are you kiddin'? Neither of us have ever bin further than Cornwall! I wouldn't have the first clue how to live over there!'
'Good.'
'Look, Elvis, I still don't know what really happened over there in that church hall, or who all those people were. I guess, I just really came to say be careful. Keep away from all that stuff. OK?'
Elvis nodded.
'An' if it happens again, lots of sick people with plague or some other deadly disease, an' you need 'elp...'
'Yes?'
'Don't bloody ring me, you 'ear?' Henry laughed and gave Elvis a playful rub on the head.
Monica took the chance to sneak up to the bedroom for a lie on the bed. Since the arrests she spent most nights looking at the ceiling and most days longing for rest. She kicked off her shoes and lay her head on the pillow. The crisp cool cotton felt soothing under her neck. She closed her eyes.
/> 'Good day.' said a croaky old voice.
Monica screamed and fell off the bed. Did she dream the voice, was she going mad?
'Ye must be Monica.'
No the voice was real. Monica peered over the side of the bed. Sitting on the small armchair in the corner of the room was the little old woman. Monica recognised her wizened hairy features from the post office.
'What the hell are you doing here?'
Elvis heard the scream. He hurried up the stairs and threw open the bedroom door.
'Helloo Elvis. A'm glad te see ye're well.'
'Oh no, it's you again.' groaned Elvis.
'You know her!' exclaimed Monica. 'What's she doing here?'
'Och dinna be angry wi' the boy, madam. It's no his fault.'
'What's not his fault? Who the hell are you?'
'Aye, well there in lies a tale.' Mother Munro took a deep breath and settled into her chair ready for a good story.
Elvis groaned.
'Ma name is Munro. Tis a strange tale I have te tell ye and this may be the first time I've told it as it really is. 'Twas my grandfather, that once brave and handsome knight, he was the one that brought that precious stoon back from the Crusades te Scotland all those years ago. 'Twas he that committed the grievous sin of splitting the stoon in two and the Mother Lee Stoon was born. From that day on the stoon turned good men bad and caused misery and murder where so ever it went. When ma grandfather realised what he'd done it was too late. The damage was done and the stoon had already been stolen and hidden away. He spent the rest o' his days trying to find it and fix what he'd done. He'd hear stories and rumours of its where'boots. He'd ride day and night withoot rest te find it, but whene'er he got there it was too late and the stoon had moved on. Finally, when he lay on his deathbed, a sad and bitter old man, he made me take an oath. He made me swear ne'er te rest until I'd foond that gem and made it one again. When I made that promise all those centuries ago, I didn'e realise he meant that I could never rest, not ever, not until I fixed that stoon. I've been searchin' e'er since, from the Highland glens te the slums o' this city and everywhere in-between. I've come close, aye, more than once I've come close. Close enough te touch the stone, te see its strange red glow, and feel its magic. But never any more than that.'
'But I thought it was supposed to be good, to make people well again.' pointed out Elvis.
'It has many poowers boy, but they're only as good as the hand that holds it. It has great strength and it's true, it can heal the sick, but the great Black Death was tee much for even the stoon. So it did the next best thing, and ever since, those who drank o' the potion all those years ago have been coming back from time to time in search of a cure. Usually just in ones and twos, numbers small enough fer them te hide the truth away. But o' course, if ye sweep things under the carpet fer long enough, sooner or later you're gonne trip o'er the rug. Ye'd think the church of all people would know that. And this this time young Elvis, ye brought them back in numbers soo great that there was noo hiding them all away.'
'I brought them back? What do you mean, I brought them back? I don't see how this is my fault!'
'Noo, I dare say you don't. But dinne trouble yer feeble mind wi' small details boy. Suffice te say that this time, at least, there's many has been fixed and have returned te their old lives as if nothing e'er happened. But fer me, the hunt goes on.'
'Why don't you just give it up then?' asked Monica. 'What use is it to you anyway?'
'Ye did ne listen. Until I find that stoon and make it one again, I canna die. That's what use it is te me. If I dinne find it, I'll be forever a tired old woman, searching the streets of this God-awful city.'
'But what about Morris and the Bishop?' asked Elvis.
'Aye well, through the ages there's them who drunk of the potion te get well, and then there's them that's used it te barter their soul for eternal life. But they know that when that stoon is one again, their bargain is over and their time on this earth is done. They'll stop at nothin' te make sure that ne'er happens. The Bishop of Southwark is one such man. But there are others, many others. That's why they chase this stoon.'
'And Morris?'
'Aye. Morris Klatzmann or William Jarvis or whatever else he chooses te call hi'self. He's another.'
'But what's wrong with them wanting to live forever? Everyone wants to do that... except for you maybe.'
'Aye, that might be soo Elvis. But their existence comes at a price. 'Tis a life for a life. Every time they live through another generation, they must steal the breath of another pour soul so that they can go on.'
'What, you mean they ...kill someone?' asked Monica.
'Aye, in a manner o speakin'. There's many a wife an' child that's lived in this hoose over the years. Not many have seen all o' the days they should.'
Monica pulled her cardigan in tightly against the sudden chill.
'So does that mean... you have to kill people too?' Elvis asked hesitantly, edging towards his mother.
'Och noo boy! If it had been that easy fer me, I'd ha' bin gone long agoo.'
'So you're saying Morris had us here so he could...' Monica couldn't end her sentence.
'You wouldn'e ha' bin the first. An' this is why I need the boy's help, one last time. We must end this terrible thing, once an' fer all. Ye must come wi' me an' make this stoon one again. De ye still have it Elvis.'
Elvis pulled the sparkling gem from his pocket and held it aloft. The walls of the bedroom glowed red.
'He won't be going anywhere without me.' snapped Monica.
'More hands te the pump. That'll be fine.'
'But where is the rest of the stone. Is it nearby?'
'Och noo. 'Tis back hoom, in Scotland, in Lanark. It's been in safe hands for generations, waiting for this time te come.'
'Scotland!' said Monica. 'How can we get to Scotland? Morris has the car and I am not going on the bus.'
'Och, ne'er fear woman. Our carriage awaits!' She nodded towards the window. Across the road Geoffrey was parked in his Austin Princess. 'All I have t'do is send a wee message te ma good friend in Lanark te meet me wi' the rest o' the stoon and we can be on our way.'
'A message?' said Elvis 'What you going to do? Light a fire? Send a pidgeon?'
'He's noo very bright is he?' said Mother Munro sympathetically to Monica. 'Noo boy, I'll send an SMS. He'll meet us tonight, at midnight.'
'Tonight! Where?' demanded Monica.
'At the top of the Tower of Hallbar.'
Chapter 22