The Prestige Read Free Page A

still
     impossible to put it into words.
    The entrance to the Rapturous Church was a steep driveway slanting off the main road, but
     barred by a pair of wrought-iron gates and a gatehouse. There was a second gate to one
     side, also closed, marked Private. The two entrances formed an extra space, so I parked my
     car there and walked across to the gatehouse. Inside the wooden porch a modern bell push
     had been attached to the wall, and beneath this was a laser-printed notice:
    RAPTUROUS CHURCH OF CHRIST JESUS WELCOMES YOU
    NO VISITORS WITHOUT APPOINTMENT
    FOR APPOINTMENTS RING CALDLOW 393960
    TRADESMEN AND OTHERS PRESS BELL TWICE
    JESUS LOVES YOU
    I pressed the bell twice, without audible effect.
    Some leaflets were standing in a semi-enclosed holder, and beneath them was a padlocked
     metal box with a coin slot in the top, screwed firmly to the wall. I took one of the
     leaflets, slipped a fifty-pence piece into the box, then went back to the car and rested
     my backside against the nearside wing while I read it. The front page was a brief history
     of the sect, and carried a photograph of Father Franklin. The remaining three pages had a
     selection of Biblical quotes.
    When I next looked towards the gates I discovered they were opening silently from some
     remote command, so I climbed back into the car and took it up the sloping, gravelled
     drive. This curved as it went up the hill, with a lawn rising in a shallow convex on one
     side. Ornamental trees and shrubs had been planted at intervals, drooping in the veils of
     misty rain. On the lower side were thick clumps of dark-leafed rhododendron bushes. In the
     rear-view mirror I noticed the gates closing behind me as I drove out of sight of them.
     The main house soon came into view: it was a huge and unattractive building of four or
     five main storeys, with black slate roofs and solid-looking walls of sombre dark-brown
     brick and stone. The windows were tall and narrow, and blankly reflected the rain-laden
     sky. The place gave me a cold, grim feeling, yet even as I drove towards the part of the
     drive made over as a car park I felt my brother's presence in me once again, urging me on.
    I saw a Visitors this Way sign, and followed it along a gravel path against the main wall
     of the house, dodging the drips from the thickly growing ivy. I pushed open a door and
     went into a narrow hallway, one that smelt of ancient wood and dust, reminding me of the
     Lower Corridor in the school I had been to. This building had the same institutional
     feeling, but unlike my school was steeped in silence.
    I saw a door marked Reception, and knocked. When there was no answer I put my head around
     the door, but the room was empty. There were two old-looking metal desks, on one of which
     was perched a computer.
    Hearing footsteps I returned to the hallway, and a few moments later a thin middle-aged
     woman appeared at the turn of the stairs. She was carrying several envelope wallet files.
     Her feet made a loud sound on the uncarpeted wooden steps, and she looked enquiringly at
     me when she saw me there.
    “I'm looking for Mrs Holloway,” I said. “Are you she?”
    “Yes, I am. How may I help you?”
    There was no trace of the American accent I had half-expected.
    “My name is Andrew Westley, and I'm from the
    
    
     Chronicle
    
    
     .” I showed her my press card, but she merely glanced at it. “I was wondering if I could
     ask you a few questions about Father Franklin.”
    “Father Franklin is in California at present.”
    “So I believe, but there was the incident last week—”
    “Which one do you mean?” said Mrs Holloway.
    “I understand Father Franklin was seen here.”
    She shook her head slowly. She was standing with her back to the door which led into her
     office. “I think you must be making a mistake, Mr Westley.”
    “Did you see Father Franklin when he was here?” I said.
    “I did not. Nor was he here.” She was