The Fool Read Free

headstones and a chicken was
beheaded at the Church door, with its blood used to draw an
inverted pentagram. The Archdiocese and the police had sealed it
down with the help of the outraged parishioners and a local animal
charity. CCTV had been upped and a couple of the youths from one of
the local gangs had been arrested and charged with defacing Church
property.
    All had gone quiet until Father Jones had
opened up the Church doors yesterday morning and found the body
upon the altar.
     
    Unfortunately, the young man who was dead,
and spread across the stones, was known to Father Jones. Just the
day before, they had been involved in a fist fight on the Church
steps. They both still wore the bruises and cuts they had given
each other. In fact, Father Jones had been the last person to see
the young man alive.
     
    Maryam finished her studies and switched her
phone back on whilst she ate a good meal. It was a bit early for a
full dinner, but the food wasn’t as good on the Eurostar, it had no
internet signal at all, and phone calls were almost impossible.
Whilst transferring at Lille, her phone beeped confirmation of the
appointment she’d sought for her arrival. She settled onto the
London train and switched everything off, using the time to reflect
and refresh her mind, clearing out the images of blood and violence
upon the altar, preparing herself to receive more information with
an open mind. She itched to lay out a tarot reading and study what
it may give her in the form of access to her own sub-conscious
thoughts. Public attention closed that avenue down, however, and
she put earphones on, pretending to listen to music. She sat with
her eyes closed, grounding herself fully despite the speed at which
she wasn’t touching the ground at all.
     
    St Pancras, London was bitterly cold and it
was raining: winter cold and dark. Customs had been dealt with in
Lille, and the more relaxed attitude to train travel as opposed to
flight had ensured her work case had been passed through with the
minimum of problems. She alighted onto the platform and was met
immediately by a young priest named Father Scott. He appeared
disconcerted by her appearance; what, or whom, had he been
expecting? He was too well-trained to say anything however, and he
escorted her to the car whilst dutifully asking if her journey had
been bearable. She was quite surprised to find Bishop Atkins of the
Diocese of Westminster and Bishop to the Curia in England &
Wales sitting in the back seat of the car, awaiting her. Father
Scott packed her bags into the boot as she settled into the seat
beside the Bishop.
     
    ‘Marie.’ Atkins nodded hello.
    ‘Frederick, how nice to see you.’ He did not
extend his hand and she did not kiss his ring.
    ‘What arrangements have been made?’
    ‘I thought we’d drive you to Westminster,
where an apartment has been prepared for you. Then we can discuss
the matter before speaking to the priests at the parish concerned.
The police will want to speak to you in the morning, no doubt.’
    Father Scott started up the car and they
began to weave their way to the exit queue to negotiate the ticket
barrier.
    ‘I did not have time to alert you, but I
have an appointment in a few minutes. Father Scott, could you take
us to New Scotland Yard? Thank you. Also, Fred, I’d prefer to stay
at the parish house in Peckham. After you drop me off, perhaps you
and Father Scott can take my cases there and I’ll join you later?’
She gave Fred her best smile-of-good-intent: the social lubricant
that women must often use when working with men used to being in
charge. ‘Do you have a folder for me?’
    Atkins leaned down and opened his briefcase,
taking out a thin folder stamped with the mark of the Diocese of
Westminster. His jaw was compressed as he handed the file over
without speaking. He had always hated taking orders from anyone
outside the Church: he must have hated that Rome had sent her.
    The drive took a little over twenty