Out of Reach Page 5
He climbed the two-tiers of steps and entered through the north door. When a liveried attendant quietly asked to see a ticket, Schaefer mumbled that he was here for a service. The attendant signalled the seating area under the dome. Schaefer crossed the flagstones, and passed the public seats. He headed for the gated portico behind the choir stalls, where another attendant waited.
“I’m here for the service,” Schaefer croaked.
“Who are you with?” the attendant asked, looking the borderline derelict up and down.
“Oliver Schaefer,” Schaefer replied.
The attendant stepped aside and allowed Schaefer to pass through the gate.
“You’d better hurry,” the attendant called after him. “You’re late.”
Schaefer cantered along the rear of the stalls to the small archway that cut between them. He stepped into the aisle that ran between the north and south choir stalls, directly in front of the High Altar, and stopped in his tracks. The choral procession had already started. Led by the Dean and cassocked senior clergy, the men and boys of the choir, in their white and black choir robes made their way down the aisle. Schaefer shrank back, trying to go unnoticed, but the choir had seen him, and his ten-year-old son, Oliver, had that familiar look of disappointment on his face as he glanced in Schaefer’s direction. Across the aisle, in the seats reserved for the choristers’ families, Schaefer could see whispers of disapproval from the Middle-Englanders who sent their offspring to the Cathedral school. And there among them sat Schaefer’s ex-wife, Sarah. The look of disappointment again, but this one was tinged with a fatigue that came from years of ever lowering expectations. With her cascading, curly black hair, and soft Celtic features, Sarah was still beautiful, but her eyes betrayed her sadness and torment. Unlike Schaefer, she’d been strong, and for the sake of Oliver she’d made pretence of moving on from the past. But Schaefer knew the truth; Sarah’s life was an act. A performance designed to give their son some semblance of a normal upbringing. At her core she was just as broken as him.
When the choir had passed and were shuffling to their places in the stalls, Schaefer crossed the aisle and took one of the few available seats. The high-backed, hardwood stalls were uncomfortable and oppressive, but the music made all the disapproval, the discomfort and the shame worthwhile. Schaefer swelled with pride when he heard the beautiful music his son made with the Cathedral Choir. The light, crystal clear voices filled the transept, and for a brief moment, hearing such glorious talent, Schaefer could almost bring himself to believe that there was a God. But harmonious voices uplifted in spiritual adulation could never undo Schaefer’s misery, the suffering he’d seen, and the violence he’d inflicted on others. Those were the real experiences that proved to Schaefer that God only existed as a figment of humanity’s imagination; a cleverly contrived fairy-tale character designed to prevent people from simply crumbling under the crushing weight of the darkness in the world. False hope is better than no hope at all.
Schaefer sat back and forced himself to smile at his son. Oliver looked at him, and then quickly looked away. No succour. Not even there.
The subject of the sermon was, ‘Keeping Faith Through Struggle’. Apparently the Dean had some wisdom to share on the subject of adversity. Schaefer wondered how a man coddled by the church for most of his adult life could have anything useful to say on the matter. Schaefer tuned the man out, and spent the rest of the service studying the faces of the men and women in the stalls opposite, which were reserved for the members of London’s livery guilds. Now nothing more than exclusive clubs that engaged in the odd charitable endeavour, the guilds had once been professional societies established to ensure the transfer of technical knowledge from one generation to the next. Coopers, clock makers, and apocatheries had once congregated in the ancient halls, bound by their passion for a craft. Now those same halls were filled with corporate drones whose only skill was making money. Schaefer looked at their faces. The men were generally swollen and ruddy, their jowly faces the legacy of too many boozy lunches. The women pinched and drained by fad diets and punishing exercise regimes. Schaefer wondered how the world would suffer if none of the people opposite survived the night, and suddenly stopped himself. He’d been down that road many times before, and it led to dangerous places. The world didn’t work like that. There was no justice. No fairness. Everyone was fighting a losing battle. And in war, all that counted was what you could take. Once, long ago, he’d had faith in God, he’d believed in his country, and he’d trusted other people. But then he lost Amber, and he wondered how a just God could subject his child to whatever unimaginable experiences she had suffered. He shook with rage at the thought that a man who had diligently served his country and fought for his fellow man could be abandoned by the Almighty. And he railed against the thought that there were people out there cruel enough to abduct children. He had hated the world for not stopping, and could not understand how it carried on as though nothing had happened. And then, after years in the darkness, Schaefer had come to understand the truth.
Any one of the men and women opposite had probably done more to deserve Schaefer’s suffering, but Schaefer knew that there wasn’t a bearded old man in the sky keeping tabs. There was no reckoning of good or evil. Life was not a game, there were no rules, and there most certainly wasn’t a referee. Life was a battle, a struggle against adversity. And every single person on the planet faced the struggle and would eventually lose it. To most, the people opposite him lived charmed lives, but Schaefer knew that those lives would be blighted by their own misery. The fat banker struggling to conceal hundreds of millions of pounds in losses, abandoned by his wife and kids, eventually so burdened by shame that he takes his own life. The rake-thin, ambitious city woman stuck in a loveless marriage, permanently scarred by childhood abuse, now traumatised by news that there was a cancer growing inside her. The clergyman who lay awake at night struggling with his darkest desires, which were compounded by his daily proximity to the handsome young boys at the Cathedral school. We were all trapped in darkness, Schaefer had concluded, the only thing that varied was the shape of the shadow that fell upon a person.
The priest led a prayer asking God to help those in need of strength. Prayer wouldn’t help, Schaefer thought. He’d spent hours on his knees in St Mark’s, pleading with God for Amber’s safe return. He was living proof that prayer was a futile waste of air. But if it gave the weak their false hope, perhaps it did some good. Without false hope people would be forced to confront their desolate lives and the abyss that awaited them with no comfort whatsoever. Schaefer imagined a different world; one where he was at the pulpit opening the congregation’s eyes to the truth. If you want to overcome adversity, you need a fire in your soul. For some that fire would come from ambition, for others, greed. For Schaefer the one thing he could rely on to keep the fire burning as long as he drew breath was rage. Unquenchable anger that flamed within him born out of hatred for the person that stole his daughter away from him. Rage gave him the strength to endure things that would have killed other men.
*
Schaefer caught up with Sarah in the South Transept. She was walking with Ted and Nancy, parents from the school.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Sarah told them.
Ted and Nancy continued towards the exit, acknowledging Schaefer’s presence with a disapproving nod.
Sarah turned to face Schaefer and the two of them stood face-to-face in front of Nelson’s Monument. The stone lion that lay at Nelson’s feet peered into the air between them.
“I’m sorry,” Schaefer began.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah said, her forgiveness practised and polite.
“I shouldn’t have been late.”
“You turned up.”
“Sarah, I—” Schaefer hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but the words simply wouldn’t come.
“What do you want, Thomas?” Sarah asked, her voice full of sadness. “There’s nothing more to be said.”
Sarah turned and walked away from Schaefer, who said nothing as he watched her go.
*
St. Paul’s Cathedral School filled a series of squat buildings from the tail end of the twentieth century. Surrounded by towers of lawyers, accountants, and bankers, the school offered high-priced education to a mix of day students and boarders. Sarah, ever diligent, had discovered that a distant uncle had attended the school. It was a tenuous link, but it was all she needed. She had found out that the school offered scholarships to the disadvantaged and that if a boy sang in the Cathedral Choir, that the Dean and Chapter would pay some, if not all, of his tuition fees. Throw into the mix the livery companies, which sponsored a handful of students each year, and a canny parent could ensure that their lack of funds would not stand in the way of a top-flight education. Schaefer had to hand it to his ex-wife; she knew how to work the system, which was just as well. The few hundred pounds he paid in monthly maintenance did not stretch far in London.
Schaefer walked the short distance to the school through the churchyard located to the north of the Cathedral. The great dome, which would once have been the tallest structure in London, was dwarfed by the glass and steel corporate temples around it, but none of them could touch the magnificence of the Cathedral. It wasn’t just that the building was beautiful; it was the sense of endurance that came from the place. As uncomfortable as it made him feel, the Cathedral was a legacy. A gift from a lost age that countless others would enjoy. None of the buildings that crowded the Cathedral would last beyond a generation or two. Grand, expensive, and transient. They’ll be here longer than you, Schaefer caught himself thinking. The pressing sense of his own mortality bore down on him like the crushing foot of a pitiless slave driver. The Cathedral was the product of one man’s mind, a man made of the same matter as Schaefer. And yet, in a single lifetime, this man designed and constructed a magnificent building that stands through time. All Schaefer had to do with his one lifetime was find one girl. His girl. That would be his legacy: the restoration of his child. Insignificant to the rest of the world. Grander than the Cathedral to him.
The tiny car park in front of the school was stacked with new Mercs, BMWs, and Audis. Schaefer picked his way past the haphazardly parked vehicles, and pulled open the light oak door that was the school’s unassuming main entrance. The supercilious Deputy Head, Mr Norman, stood beside a sign that read, Parent-Student Luncheon. Two older students stood with him, satellites of fawning admiration to his giant orb of self-adoration.
“Good to see you, Mr Schaefer,” Norman said with a counterfeit smile. “It’s been a while.”
The way Norman looked him over, left no doubt in Schaefer’s mind that the Deputy Head considered his prolonged absences from the school a good thing.
“Carter, give Mr Schaefer a newsletter,” Norman instructed.
The taller boy handed Schaefer a photocopy covered in small print.
“We’re downstairs in the cafeteria,” Norman said, gesturing towards the staircase that led to the basement.
Schaefer started down. The walls of the staircase were covered in honour rolls that detailed the names of head boys, cricket captains, rugby captains, and other school luminaries through the ages. This rich, long heritage was now Oliver’s, and Schaefer had no part of it. As Schaefer neared the bottom of the steps, he could hear the rising hubbub of parents, students and teachers. Ahead of him, at the end of a long corridor lined with colourful student paintings were the slatted double doors that opened onto the cafeteria. He could see the crowd through the glass panels that ran down the centre of each door. As Schaefer stepped forward, a child ran past him.
“Sorry,” the small, brown-haired boy said with a backward glance. The boy’s expression changed when he caught sight of the man he’d just barged. Schaefer registered the look of fear tinged with disgust, and realised that he carried the darkness of his world with him. At five feet ten, Schaefer was not physically imposing. His clothes were functional and durable. A black leather jacket, a grey roll neck, and black jeans. His stubble was a few days old, and his short black hair was tousled but not unkempt. There was nothing in his physical appearance that would cause comment on any street in London. Schaefer knew it was his eyes. Crystal clear azure blue, windows to a soul in torment. Even this small child could see Schaefer’s suffering, and it made him recoil.
The boy ran on, and didn’t even make pretence of holding the door open as he ducked inside the cafeteria, hurrying to find safe harbour with his mother or father. Schaefer pulled open the door, and the sounds of civilised conversation and children at play washed over him. He scanned the room, ignoring the quizzical looks from a few parents who had not been told of the freak that walked among them, and caught sight of Sarah. She was standing with the Headmaster, a small group of eager parents hovering around them, each eager for their opportunity to dazzle the head and win favour. Oliver was playing with a gang of boys his own age. Schaefer recognised most of them, but couldn’t recall their names. They looked happy. His wife – ex – and his son seemed content. They didn’t need anything from him. Schaefer decided to leave their world undisturbed. He backed out of the cafeteria and walked away as the door slowly swung shut behind him.
*
Tilly said nothing as Schaefer sat down at the bar.
“I’m a sucker for punishment,” Schaefer said with a sad smile. It had been a day to forget.
Tilly got to work on Schaefer’s drink. Gosling’s Black Seal with ice. Tilly pushed the full glass across the bar.
“Here you go,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Schaefer considered the rich, dark rum. Strong enough to take down an ox. Strong enough to keep Schaefer going.
SEVEN
A nightmare full of hideous things he couldn’t remember the moment he opened his eyes. A sudden rush of sensation. Schaefer’s head was on a plump, down pillow. Sarah was next to him, but she hadn’t heard the noise yet. Amber was crying from the next room. Schaefer got to his feet and stumbled over the trousers he’d enthusiastically discarded in his eagerness to get Sarah into bed. Pregnant women didn’t fit any sexy stereotype, but Schaefer couldn’t help himself. Rotund or flat, Sarah always had his attention.
Schaefer crossed the landing, and hurried into Amber’s room. Unlike his own room as a child, Amber’s was neat and tidy. Her toys were in a large wicker basket, her books ranked in order of size on her bookshelves, her soft toys properly arranged on her chest of drawers, and her music boxes lined up on her windowsill. Everything was basked in the faint yellow-green glow of the nightlight by the bed. Amber was hunched over, half-awake, sobbing about monsters. Schaefer drew her close to him and squeezed tightly.
“It’s okay, Amby,” Schaefer soothed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Daddy will always look after you. It’s okay.”
*
Schaefer resented his mobile phone. The persistent ringing pierced his dream and shattered the illusion that his life had not been torn apart. Schaefer relished dreams about Amber, his unconscious mind playing a compassionate hoax to give him a few more stolen moments with his daughter. Schaefer opened his eyes to find himself lying on the Persian rug in front of the fire. Weak early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. The pub was completely still. Schaefer answered his hateful phone.
“Yeah, this is Schaefer,” he croaked.
“It’s me,” said Mathers, his voice distant and tiny. “I think I’ve found something.”
*
Piccadilly was packed with tourists. Schaefer picked his way through the crowd clustered around Green Park Station, and made his way through the gates into the relative calm of the park. The path was covered with crisp orange leaves, and there was a bite to the air that made the onset of winter feel all too close. Schaefer saw Mathers sitting on a bench about half way down the path. The wiry man wore a tailored woollen coat and held a large box folder.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” Mathers said, as Schaefer app
roached. “I like to walk in the morning. It’s good for the mind.”
Mathers looked Schaefer up and down as he got to his feet.
“You look like you could use some fresh air,” he said.
Schaefer ignored the swipe.
“You said you found something.”
“I think you may have stumbled upon something quite sinister, Thomas,” Mathers said, as the two men started walking. “Have you ever heard of The Collective?”
Schaefer shook his head.
“Not many people have,” Mathers continued. “It’s a society that started in Central Europe ten centuries ago. I’d always thought it more legend than reality, but it seems I may have been wrong.”
Mathers stopped and produced a photograph from the folder. The image showed a stone carving of people being devoured by a demon. The carving was encased by a circular inscription.
“Not very pretty,” Mathers said. “The text is Latin. It means: The Collective, strength in the one, strength in all.”
Mathers looked at Schaefer intently.
“These people are dark, Thomas. They worship some kind of demon. It doesn’t really have a name, and it has many: Astranger; Trauco; Papa Boya.”
“Papa Boya?” Schaefer interrupted. “One of my clients mentioned him.”
“You don’t want this, Thomas. It’s very dark. Let it go.”
“Who is this Papa Boya?” Schaefer asked.
“I don’t know. As I said, until you showed me the photographs, I thought The Collective was the stuff of myth and legend. Why is this so important?”
“Leon Yates said Amber’s name right before he jumped to his death,” Schaefer replied. “I think this group might have something to do with her abduction.”
Mathers placed a sympathetic hand and Schaefer’s shoulder.
“I understand,” Mathers said, his voice softening. “Let me see what I can find out.”