Williams - Twelve Days

Copyright 2019 Paul Williams

The right of Paul Williams to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Print ISBN 978-1-913419-12-7

1

A partridge in a pear tree

C astello di Rocca stood on the edge of a chasm. I stared at the dark windows, the heavy stone, the turrets. Castles like this had been built in the Middle Ages to look menacing to enemies, to inspire fear.

I looked back. Just cloud and fog now, as if the world behind me had been swallowed up.

Benvenuti nella casa propria del diavolo.

Who lives here? I asked the driver.

A mad old man. He lets out the castle to the odd mazzo di turisti. The driver punctuated his sentences with hand movements, nerve-racking because he kept taking his hands off the wheel, even on tight bends, to make his point. Usually they come to see the torture instruments. But the museo is closed in winter. Number one tourist attraction in Reggio Emilia in summer. Signor Rossi collects instruments of torture.

It wasnt the thought of a castle full of contraptions of torment that worried me. The more intriguing question was why the Reverend James Miller had picked this remote castle for a reunion of the chosen.

If it were not for Suzanne, I wouldnt be here. Nothing else could have dragged me to meet these people again: the preacher who destroyed my childhood, and his surrounding group of gloating, smug hypocrites. But Suzanne was coming. For years I tried to obliterate her from my mind, outrun her, but that was impossible. The media had slathered her image over billboards and magazines; she waltzed across movie and television sets and her latest hairstyle, her daring dress at the Oscars, her new facelift were the subjects of whole articles written in womens magazines.

Seeing her again, I hoped, might lay ghosts to rest.

The Fiat Uno squeezed through a narrow passage between sheer rocks. Boulders looked poised to fall from the top. The sky pressed down.

A storm is coming. Look! The driver took both hands off the wheel to indicate the heavy low clouds.

I pulled at the neck of my sweater. Is this the only way in? The only road to the castle?

Si, signore.

He pointed up the road, and I noticed the mark on his left hand. The driver saw me staring and explained. La volgia. Birthmark.

I thought it was a tattoo. The rough brown patch of skin was shaped like the hourglass silhouette of a womans mid-section; dark hair grew out of it.

He laughed. The woman of my life. You have a woman in your life?

No. I had no woman in my life. I had women in my life. A series of deflections, look-a-likes, bad copies. Trying to eradicate a prototype that had been written into my neural networks.

Her.

The Fiat Uno rounded one last bend and the castle rose before me, stretching into the cloud. I considered that perhaps this was not the optimum place to be trapped for twelve days with the remnants of what I now considered to be a cult.

Lichen clung to walls, turrets and crenulations. At this elevation, I could see why the castle had been built here; an impressive giant stone citadel dominating the medieval landscape and the Enza River valley below that isolated itself from the outside world. How do they get supplies? Food? Drink? Mangia. Bere.

Thats my job, dont you worry. Im the concierge. I will take good care of you. Plenty food, how you call it pernice. I brought everything.

And wine, I hope.

Instruction from your padrone no alcohol.

So much for celebrating Christmas and the new year. This was the Reverend James Millers doing. He had never tolerated alcohol, smoking or dancing in the congregation at Joyful Resurrection. Every Sunday as teens, we listened to his black and white morality. I wondered if he had softened his extremist views. Probably not. I leaned back against the seat, attempted to relax whilst considering that each bend in the road might be the last thing I saw.

The Twelve, we once called ourselves.

The driver parked on gravel in front of a wide entrance hall. He got out and opened the car door for me.

Grazie. Quanta costa? I almost didnt want to know the answer, because it was Christmas Day and I assumed the price of my ride would be inflated accordingly.

No, no. All paid for by the signore.

We shook hands and I felt the texture of the birthmark. Drive carefully looks like a snowstorm is brewing.

Buon Natale!

Dark snow clouds sagged over the valley, with every moment increasing the chance of a white Christmas. I wrapped myself in my coat, took a deep breath of freezing air and stepped into the past.

The sense of unease in the pit of my stomach could not be ignored. But now that I was here, there was nothing to do but crunch through a thin layer of ice and snow to the entrance. Below-zero air froze my sinuses as I knocked and then pushed on the heavy door, which swung open on creaking hinges.

* * *

R afe. Merry Christmas! Youre looking good. Still as young as ever.

Merry Christmas to you too, Reverend James.

I called him Reverend because that is what he had trained us to do as teen converts in his church, the Church of the Joyful Resurrection, out of respect for his office, he had told us. But now the name stuck in my throat. Reverend was a descriptor, not a title, and by insisting on it as a title showed that this pastor lacked appropriate boundaries, lacked respect for the power balance within the church, and had arrogantly invented his own title. But the habit stuck.

The Reverend James Miller had aged well. He was cleanly shaven, and his bald head shone. Been a long time. A long time. How are you? He didnt wait for a response.

He ushered me in. A Christmas tree stood in the centre of a tall-ceilinged room, and two men with their backs to me pulled decorations out of a box and strung them up on the branches. Christmas lights flashed on and off. Two women hunched over a nativity scene, arranging the figures under the tree. I was surprised. Reverend James had never allowed Christmas trees in our church, considering them pagan symbols. Maybe he had softened his views. A Merry Christmas banner hung between two large chandeliers. A fire roared in a large grate, and a mirror the size of the entire wall on the opposite side reflected the glitter and lights. I felt thankful for the warmth. My apprehension eased, for a moment.