Through the toughened day-room glass, the grounds looked insubstantial: receding in the mist and fading light. The afternoon was gloomy; the buzzing glare of strip-lights served to darken it still further. A thick haze had engulfed the fields and wood.

Here inside, the air seemed just as dense.

The man they knew as John was at the window – gazing out into the murk, as if entranced. There were other people in here too; but to Claire it seemed as if the man in white had brewed this up himself. He was drawing on a cigarette, detached and calm as ever; the smoke hung all about him like a wreath. The fags were second nature now: he smoked them almost absently – mechanical as an iron lung. The ash flared with the slow pulse of a lighthouse. A dozen chain-smoked butts were in the ashtray on the table, the last of them still adding to the grey haze in the room.

The air was acrid in Claire’s throat; she didn’t need to fake a cough. A couple of the others turned to look. But John kept his eyes on the ghostly world outside.

‘All right now, John …’

The ash glowed fiery orange; died again. John loosed a last grey breath of smoke, and slowly turned his head. She felt an apprehensive prickle touch her neck.

A fierce face: she’d thought so from the start. The bones of a handsome man were there; the dark eyes of a wise one. But the unkempt hair and scrubby beard gave him a wild appearance. Both hair and beard were grizzled, though he looked to be mid-thirties; his skin was tanned and toughened, deeply lined. A scowl sat best upon that face – anchored firmly in the glower of the eyes.

‘They’re ready for you now,’ Claire told him firmly. She stood aside, inviting him to come.

And John the smoker nodded, glancing down. Focusing once more on the word he’d scratched, in the paint beside the window. Spider letters, thumbnail-etched. No one else had noticed, and he knew it. But now he had it captured. He would not forget again.

More than just a word, of course; a Name. It had come again last night, still fresh, from out of desert places in his mind. The rest would surely follow in its tracks.

Murzim. The Announcer.

A faint smile twitched his mouth like a galvanized muscle: briefly alive, then lifeless as before. Straightening up, he walked towards the keeper of the door.

‘Thank you for seeing us, John,’ said Dr Lawrence.

The other’s cold eyes didn’t blink. He’d nursed his cigarette almost down to the butt: each puff drawn in, and lazily expelled. Like the slow, unconscious breathing of a thing in hibernation. But the mind behind those eyes was wide awake.

It seemed he’d never smoked before he came here. The case notes mentioned wariness, and blank incomprehension. But then he’d had a go, and grown voraciously addicted. Watching him, in search of a response, Lawrence noted again how he held his cigarette: between the second and third fingers, so that each drag masked half his face. Like somebody still learning the technique.

The other clients kept him well-supplied; gathering round to hear him speak. Something about his ramblings seemed to reach their deeper selves. Bible John, they called him; a name with sombre echoes of some half-forgotten crime.

‘We’re here to review the progress of your case,’ Lawrence went on. ‘Dr Andrews here is on my team … An affable nod from the younger man. ‘And Miss Johnston is your designated social worker.’ The woman smiled politely. ‘I wonder, could you tell us how you feel you’re progressing?’

John snorted, very faintly. ‘There is no change in the truth.’

His tone was low and surly – made more so by the European accent. Speaks English well, but not as a first language, was the comment in the file. Lawrence’s mind flashed forward through his questions, resetting them to iron out confusions.

‘What truth is that?’ he came back calmly.

‘I come from the stars – to bring Good News to the poor.’

Lawrence nodded, poker-faced; then probed again. ‘When you say from the stars … what do you mean by that?’

A fleeting smile lit John’s dark face: contemptuous, and cunning. ‘You have not heard; why should I tell?’

‘I should like to understand.’

‘Who are you, then, who asks?’

‘A doctor.’

‘A learned man. Why then have you not heard?’ John sat back, grimly satisfied with that.

Dr Andrews rubbed his jaw; eyes shrewd behind his glasses.

Lawrence was warming to the game, but didn’t let it show. ‘Do you believe that you have come from another world?’

John shook his head. ‘I go to one – which is to come.’

‘But you came here from another country? Another land?’

A pause. John’s stare had grown suspicious. ‘I have told you this before.’

‘Forgive me. Indulge me, if you would.’

John gazed at him with hooded eyes; head resting on the chairback. Then: ‘I was born in the city of Siena.’

‘In Italy?’

‘As you call it.’

Miss Johnston’s eyes flicked down towards the folder on her lap; then up again.

‘And when did you come here?’ asked Lawrence.

John stared at him; then shrugged. ‘After the Death. I do not know the year.’

‘By the Death … you mean the Black Death, is that right?’

‘The Pestilence. Indeed.’

‘That was in the fourteenth century. Do you know what century you are living in now?’

‘You have told me the twentieth.’

‘So you believe you have lived before?’

That grim, spasmodic smile again. ‘The thread has not been cut.’

Lawrence spread his hands, his smile a study in bemusement. ‘But nobody can live that long. Do you see my problem?’

‘No, dottore. I see your unbelief.’ And as he spoke, he stirred himself, sat forward – so abruptly that the others almost flinched. Yet before they could react he was slouching back again: drawing deep upon the ember of his dying cigarette.

Silence in the room. The smoke had spread like fusty wings, brooding over the four chairs. Lawrence leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin against his interlocking hands.

‘You still maintain that you’re a priest?’

‘I am ordained in Holy Church,’ John said: matter-of-fact, monotonous again.

‘Do you belong to any order?’

‘Ordo Praedicatorum.’

The Order of Preachers, as one contributor to the case notes had helpfully explained. Better known as the Dominicans. Black Friars. Black for their cloaks, so Lawrence recalled. The friar’s habit would be white; and sure enough, John wore no other shade. Hence the institutional pyjamas, which Lawrence cordially disliked. The clients wore their own clothes here: the clinical environment was consciously played down. But John had been found wandering, a tramp in filthy rags, and refused to wear the clothes that he’d been offered. The starch-white shirt and trousers were an interim resort – but had now become his permanent attire. He still rejected shoes and socks; his bare feet brown and callused, tough as hide.

Lawrence sat up straighter; gave an understanding nod.

‘The reason you’re here, John … as I’ve explained before … is that we believe that you suffer from delusions. That you can see this past, quite clearly, in your head – but it’s something your mind has created.’

John didn’t rise to that. He sucked on the last spark, his eyes reptilian.

Lawrence glanced down at the file. ‘Are you taking your medication? Your drugs?’

A sneer convulsed the other’s lips. ‘So am I free to choose?’

‘Don’t fight against them, John. They’ll help you see.’

John slowly shook his head. ‘They make me blind. I must be wakeful.’

‘What for?’

‘That Day. The Day of Anger. It comes soon.’

Andrews made a dutiful note.

Lawrence regarded his client thoughtfully; then tried one final tack.

‘You let us call you John. Wouldn’t you prefer it if we called you by your own name?’

John met his gaze full on for several seconds. ‘I do not remember it.’

The same response as usual. ‘So what do you call yourself ?’

Normally John stonewalled that; but not this time. Though his face remained defiant, a shadow seemed to cross it: a tremor raised by turbulence deep down. He wavered for a moment … then let his last lungful of smoke stream out, like a dead man’s final breath.

‘Dominicain,’ he said.

Cain was the bit that Lawrence’s mind latched onto. Intrigued, concealing his excitement, he leaned forward.

‘That’s interesting. Because you’re a Dominican?’

Once more the other shook his head. His look was almost pitying.

‘Because I have done murder, dottore. Because I am a murderer for Christ.’

CHAPTER IV

Mind and Memory

‘Come,’ said the voice, ‘let us bury our dead.’

Dominicain’s eyes snapped open. A group of men were towering above him, like silhouettes against the milky sky. All of them were cloaked in black, with black scarves round their faces. He recognized their kind at once: he’d watched them carry coffins to the death-pits. The only figures moving in a landscape of decay. The sight awoke a long-forgotten dread.

Becchini …

He tried to rise; his limbs would not obey him. Numbness soaked through every muscle. He was dimly aware of lying on his bed – but the bed itself had sunk into the ground. Walls of dark earth hemmed him in. He realized he was waiting in his grave.

‘No!’ he gasped, and fought to raise an arm. Anything to show them he was still alive. But his own flesh had disowned him. His mind felt like a broken egg: a sticky, mingled pulp of white and yolk. The worst thing was, he was aware of it.

The sinister becchini showed no interest in his struggles. Their eyes were blank above their muffling scarves. But as he tried to lift his head, he glimpsed another figure, further back. A young girl, wrapped in black as well – but her face was bare, her head uncovered. She had blue eyes, and hair like golden corn. He recognized the woman who’d been given charge of him. He tried to reach her with his stare; but she just dropped her gaze, and turned away.

A shovelful of earth was thrown on him. It lay there, cold and heavy on his chest. He couldn’t even roll to shake it off. Then the rasp of shovels really started; an avalanche of dirt came pouring down. The becchini worked in grim, relentless silence, blocking out the sky like carrion birds. He made to scream – and soil filled his mouth. He choked in helpless horror, and the world was blotted out.

‘What did he say?’ Claire frowned.

‘Sounded like bikini,’ murmured Richard with a grin. ‘They’re all the same, these fundy types. All bloody hypocrites.’

She glanced at him, then back towards the bed. John lay prostrate, fully clothed; still mumbling to himself. Slipping in, she checked his chart to see what was prescribed. The dose had clearly laid him out. Chemical cosh, she thought, and pursed her lips. She looked at Jan the cleaner, who had kept on working calmly by the window; then hung the chart, and straightened up again. Peering down at John. His face was sweaty.

‘Coming?’ Richard asked her from the doorway. Their break was ticking by, of course. She’d asked to just look in on John, on their way to the canteen. Pulling her cardigan closer, she turned to the door – then looked at Jan.

‘It sounded like Italian. Was it?’

Jan – Gianna – shrugged. Her face was thoughtful. ‘I think he say becchini. Many times.’

‘And what’s that mean?’

‘The gravediggers,’ said Jan; then shrugged again, and went on with her mopping.

How can I escape Thee? I go down to the grave, and Thou art there. And now he’d risen up again: still trapped within the tenements of Dis.

He’d read the works of Dante, but even Dante hadn’t dreamed of this. The great Infernal cities had their colonies on earth. This was one – a fortress of the damned. Men possessed by devils raved around him, while lost souls walked the corridors like corpses. And this must be his punishment: to be imprisoned here while still alive.

‘What’re you thinking, John?’ Claire murmured gently, sitting down to join him at the table.

He turned his head to look at her. Could somebody so beautiful be damned? Or did she have a demon’s grin, behind that sweet, false face? An instinct said to strike at her – to claw her flesh, and see. His fingers twitched; then lay still on the tabletop again.

‘Il mio nome è Legione,’ he said softly. She didn’t understand – or didn’t seem to. Dirty sunlight bathed them both. The Lost Ones shuffled back and forth, like guards.

Claire sensed someone moving up behind her. She kept her eyes on John’s for just a moment, then looked round. Prentice stood there, looking jittery. She smiled at him. ‘Okay?’

He nodded jerkily. ‘Wanna see John.’

‘Fine. I’ll leave you to it, then.’ Getting up, she glanced at John; still looking for a spark of empathy. But he’d gone back to studying the Bible on the tabletop before him.

She moved away, still watching. Prentice sidled up towards the table, as gingerly as someone paying homage to his lord. He’d been here for a fortnight – a schizophrenic, suffering from paranoid delusions. Among other things, he’d claimed that his landlord had tried to kill him – by injecting spiders with petrol, and sending them along the pipes like tiny firebombs. Prentice had related this with unblinking conviction: enough to send imaginary spiders up her spine.

He rummaged in his pocket now, and brought three cigarettes out. With deference he laid them on the table. John looked up solemnly …

‘How do, Sister.’

‘Mike.’ She knew his jovial voice before she even turned. ‘And how’re you today?’

He was sitting in an armchair, looking smug. ‘Cooking on gas, Sister. Feeling fine. Living life on the line.’

‘I’m not a Sister, Mike, I’m just a poor downtrodden staff nurse.’ She went across to join him. ‘You’re feeling good today, then?’

‘Cooking on gas …’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Soon be out of here, yes.’

Still wearing a reflexive smile, she glanced back towards the table. John had claimed his gift of cigarettes. He was murmuring to Prentice, who looked spellbound. She felt the faintest twinge of apprehension – as if watching a child making friends with a stray, grizzled dog.

‘Care to join me in a game of draughts?’ asked Mike.

‘Can’t today,’ she said. ‘I’m going early.’

He nodded. ‘Fair enough … Cooking on gas, feeling fine, living life on the line.’

I’ll give you bloody gas, she thought. It made her realize just how stressed she was, behind her smile.

Prentice left the day-room, with a covert glance at her. Perhaps he thought she had a spider up her sleeve. Or maybe John had warned him to watch out …

Now who’s getting paranoid, my girl? She walked back over. John’s eyes came up warily. His hand closed round the cigarettes, as if he thought she’d take them.

‘It’s all right, you can keep them.’ She hesitated. ‘Just take care not to frighten him, he’s younger than he looks.’

Sitting back, he searched her face: like someone trying to see behind her eyes. She felt an inner tingle of discomfort. Her tiredness welled up, and almost peeled her smile away. The worry that had nagged throughout the shift began to bite.

‘What do you tell them, John? Why do they come?’

He didn’t blink; just answered in an almost wary tone. ‘They think that I can save them from this place.’

‘Oh, John. We’re trying to help you all, you know that.’

He rested his chin on one hand, and returned his attention to the book.

‘Remember it’s no smoking on the ward,’ she said, a little stiffly. ‘We don’t want you starting a fire.’

He looked up again, from under his brows. She glimpsed a strange, sharp glimmer in his eyes. Then the shutters rattled down again.

Claire gave a sigh, and turned away. She needed to be off in any case, her appointment was at four. Now that it was getting close, she found her mouth was dry. She thought he might be watching as she walked back down the ward, but she didn’t bother looking round to see. Right now her mind was otherwise engaged.

Perhaps some holy people were allowed into this place. Perhaps the demons couldn’t keep them out. He thought she might be one such: curiously attired, but still a Sister. One of the Franciscan Clares, perhaps – she’d claimed that she was poor. He closed his twitchy fingers to a fist.

We don’t want you starting a fire, she’d said. He realized that she knew about his sins. He looked back to the Bible; but his mind broke free, and plunged into the past.

The village looked like Hell had ridden through it.

Everything had been laid waste – the place and all its people. Houses had collapsed like burnt-out bonfires. Vivid flames still licked amid the heaps of blackened timber, but mostly there was just the smoke and stench. The sewer stench of battle, like a cesspit full of blood.

Appalled, he stumbled closer. His sandals squelched through the yellow mud. Everywhere he looked, he saw destruction. People had been hacked and burned to death. There were no bodies here, just lumps of bodies. Skinny dogs were scavenging along the littered road.

A dusty-looking group of men had gathered in the square. Lean and vicious as the dogs, and scavengers like them. Routiers, the Frenchmen called them. Restless thieves and killers on the road.

‘In Christ’s name, what is this?’ the Preacher said – so horrified, he spoke in his own language.

One of them was an Italian, too: a smiler in a grimy leather coat. He looked towards the newcomer, and shrugged. ‘The will of Holy Church. An end to heresy.’

His voice was harsh – the smile, a scar. As if the man was maimed inside; disfigured by the things which he had done.

The Preacher looked from face to face, in anger and dismay. The youngest were like old men now, their features smoked and callused. Souls had withered; eyes had lost their colour. Two or three of them were drunk, and glowered stupidly. The rest just stared in unrepentant silence.

And how did he appear to them? A poor friar, made sterner by his eyes and greying hair. Presence enough to give them pause? Or was he just a beggar among wolves?

The silence grew around them, except where flames still crackled in the background.

‘You can’t speak for Holy Church, and murder men like this.’

The other’s smile became a sneer. ‘It’s you who preached the judgment, friend – you dogs of Dominic.’

They knew him by his clothes, of course. The travel-stained white habit and black cloak. A Friar Preacher on the road – as rootless as themselves. He’d railed against the heretics at every market cross. But how could he have driven men to this?

‘Dominic came to reason with these people – not to burn them.’

‘How can someone reason with the enemies of God? Kill ’em all, says Holy Church: the Lord will know His own.’

The Preacher braced his staff against the ground: the gesture like a challenge to their daggers and their swords.

‘The poor are His own people. You kill them, and they cry out for revenge.’

The smiler’s eyes grew narrower. ‘Spare us the sermon, brother dog. You’d better get along – or stay and join them.’

Mirthless chuckles drifted round the square. The Preacher closed his fist around the staff. He gave each routier a last, accusing glance; then strode on through them, following the road.

One of the men called out in French: his tone was coarse and taunting. The last words made the Preacher turn his head.

Chevaliers de charogne.

‘What did he say?’

The smiler shrugged. ‘There are mercenaries fighting for the heretics. Carrion Knights. Black English.’ His smile didn’t flicker, but he quickly crossed himself. ‘Try preaching them your sermon … Domini Canis.’

The Preacher didn’t rise to that last insult. He turned, and tracked his gaze across the hills. A sombre stillness lay upon the landscape. But after the briefest pause, he kept on walking.

The whispers of the murdered followed him.

He heard them now, like dying breaths: still murmuring against him. Eight centuries had passed, but they would let him have no peace. The prison-house still echoed with their sighs.

Dominicain’s eyes grew focused once again. The crawling shadows on the page congealed into words.

I have come to set fire upon the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.

He let the sentence sink into his heart. Then he took a cigarette, and put it in his mouth.

Someone came and lit it without waiting to be told.

Claire found Martin lying on the sofa: slouched there with his feet drawn up, the TV handset busy in his hand. Cricket flickered on, and off; now Neighbours; now a game-show – each fleeting image zapped into oblivion.

She watched the jerky montage, feeling sick. ‘Hi,’ she said. He barely glanced around.

A solid lump had grown inside her stomach. ‘Had a good day?’

He stretched his arm out – ‘Nope’ – and brought the cricket back again. He had his jeans and T-shirt on. She watched his biceps flexing, tanned and smooth.

How long since he had given her a squeeze?

She moistened her lips and waited, but he showed no further interest. After a minute, she glanced round at the wall. ‘Hello, wall. Would you like to hear my news?’

Martin didn’t bother to respond. She stared at the screen; then walked around in front of it, and switched the TV off. ‘Hey!’ he snapped. She turned, to find him scowling up at her.

‘I was watching …’

‘No, you weren’t.’ She gazed into his sullen face – the face she thought she loved. Clean-cut features, deep, dark eyes; high cheekbones, chiselled nose. A face for magazines and films … except he looked too boyish. Too cheeky when he smiled, perhaps. Too moody when he didn’t.

She felt a sudden rush of fear. He seemed unreal, too far away to touch.

He settled back. ‘Okay, so what’s your news, then?’

She came and knelt in front of him. He was still pointing the handset at the TV; she took his wrist, and aimed it at her midriff.

‘I’m pregnant, Martin. Here. Try zapping that.’