The Gates (2009) (11 page)

The bishop of Biddlecombe at the time was named Bernard, but he was known far and wide as Bishop Bernard the Bad. Obviously, this wasn’t what his parents named him, as that would have been a bit foolish. I mean, if you name someone “the Bad” then, really, you’re just asking for trouble. It would have led to conversations like the following:

Bernard’s Parents: Hello, this is our son Bernard the Bad. We hope he’ll become a bishop someday. A nice one, of course. Not a bad one.

Not Bernard’s Parents: Er, then why did you name him “the Bad”?

Bernard’s Parents: Oh dear …
²¹

Bishop Bernard the Bad was given his nickname because he was extremely nasty. Bishop Bernard didn’t like people who disagreed with him, especially if they disagreed with his decisions to steal lots of money, kill people who had anything that he might want, and have children, even if he wasn’t supposed to have children because he was a bishop. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to do
any
of those things, but that didn’t stop Bishop Bernard. Bishop Bernard also believed there were few problems in life that couldn’t be solved by sticking a hot poker up somebody’s bottom. If that didn’t work, which was rare, he would put his enemies on a rack and stretch them until they said, “Ow!” very loudly, or just kill them, often in a slow and painful way. Bishop
Bernard knew that people called him Bernard the Bad behind his back, but he didn’t care. He rather liked the idea that people were terrified of him.

By the time St. Timidus of Biddlecombe, who wasn’t bad at all, just a little confused, died in his cave, Bishop Bernard the Bad was getting old. He decided that a church should be built and named after St. Timidus, and when he died, Bishop Bernard would be buried in a special vault in the church. That way, Bishop Bernard could pretend that he had something in common with the saint and perhaps, over time, people might forget that he was bad, as he would be the one buried in the church.

People aren’t that stupid.

Instead, when he died, Bishop Bernard was buried beneath a little room at the side of the church, and the only sign that he was there was a stone in the floor with his name on it. Thereafter, he was always mentioned when visitors were brought on tours of the chapel, but they were only told of the bad things that he had done, mainly because he had never done anything good.

So there you have it: the history of the Church of St. Timidus. Why all that is so important we shall discover later. For now, it is enough to know that Reverend Ussher and Mr. Berkeley were standing outside its doors, being very polite, when Mr. Berkeley saw Samuel approaching and nudged the vicar.

“Look out, Vicar,” he said, “it’s that strange Johnson boy.”

The vicar looked alarmed. Samuel Johnson was only eleven years old, but he sometimes asked the kinds of questions that would challenge elderly philosophers. Most recently, the vicar recalled, there had been a lengthy discussion about angels and
pins, which was something to do with a school project, although he couldn’t imagine what kind of school, other than a theology college, might require its students to debate the size and nature of the angelic host. To be perfectly frank, it had made Reverend Ussher’s head spin. He thought that Samuel Johnson might be some kind of child prodigy or genius. Then again, he might simply be a rather annoying small boy, of which, in Reverend Ussher’s experience, there were already too many in the world.

Now here Samuel was again, his brow furrowed in the kind of concentration that suggested the vicar’s knowledge of matters divine and angelic was about to be severely tested.

“Hello, Samuel,” said the vicar, composing his face into some semblance of goodwill. “And what’s on your mind this morning?”

“Do you believe in Hell, Vicar?” asked Samuel.

“Um, well.” Reverend Ussher paused. “Why are you asking about Hell, Samuel? You’re not worried about going there, are you? I can’t imagine that a young man like you could have much cause to fear, er, eternal damnation. Or even temporary damnation, come to that.”

Beside him Mr. Berkeley stifled a cough, suggesting that he would be quite happy to see Samuel Johnson suffer in a hot, fiery place, if only for long enough to discourage him from asking the vicar awkward questions.

“It’s not so much that I’m afraid of ending up there,” said Samuel. “It’s more that I’m afraid of it ending up here.”

The vicar looked confused. He’d known that he was likely to become confused at some point in the conversation; he just hadn’t imagined that it would happen so fast.

“I’m not sure that I follow you.”

“I mean, is there a chance that Hell could come here?”

“Come here?” said the verger, intervening. “It’s Hell, not the number forty-seven bus.”

Samuel ignored him. He’d never thought much of Mr. Berkeley, who always seemed to be scowling, even on Christmas morning when nobody had any business to be scowling at all.

The vicar quieted Mr. Berkeley with a wave of his hand.

“No, Samuel. Even if Hell does exist, and I’m not entirely convinced that it does, it has nothing to do with this earthly realm. It is distinct, and of itself. People may end up there, but I can say, with some confidence, that it will never end up here.”

He beamed beatifically at Samuel. Samuel did not beam back. Instead he seemed about to offer some further argument, but Mr. Berkeley had had enough. He gripped the vicar by the elbow and steered him toward less challenging company, namely Mr. and Mrs. Billingsgate, who ran the local fish-and-chip shop and rarely asked anything more awkward than whether or not one might require vinegar with that.

Samuel stared glumly as the two men walked away. He’d wanted to say much more to the vicar, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen. The vicar seemed very certain about things he couldn’t possibly know for sure, but Samuel supposed that was all part of being a vicar. After all, it wouldn’t have done for the vicar to stand up before the congregation in church on Sunday and ask if there was any point in their being here. As a vicar, you had to learn to take some things on trust.

As Samuel returned to his mum, who was chatting with friends, he saw Mrs. Abernathy by the church wall, watching
him. He noticed that she was careful to remain outside the church grounds. She hadn’t been at the service either. Samuel would have noticed her.

She beckoned to Samuel, but Samuel merely shook his head, trying to ignore her.

Samuel.

He heard her voice in his head as clearly as if she were standing next to him. He glanced at her again. She hadn’t moved, but a small smile was playing on her face.

Samuel,
her voice came again.
We need to talk. If you don’t come to me, I’m going to find your little dog, and I’m going to kill him. What do you think of that, clever Samuel Johnson? Would you sacrifice your dog’s life because you’re too frightened to face me?

Samuel swallowed. Mrs. Abernathy was like the witch in
The Wizard of Oz,
threatening Toto to get back at Dorothy. He left his mother, and approached the woman at the wall.

“How are you, Samuel?” she asked, as though they were friends who had just happened to meet on a pleasant Sunday morning.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “In fact, I was hoping you wouldn’t be here at all.”

Samuel shrugged. Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes, already blue, seemed to brighten a shade, drawing his gaze toward them.

“You sent the monster who hid under my bed,” said Samuel.

“Yes, and I’m going to have words with him, when I find him. I expended rather a lot of energy bringing him here. The least he could have done was eat you alive.”

“Well, he didn’t,” said Samuel. “He seemed quite nice, actually.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s calm expression altered for an instant. She might have been a demon but, in common with most of the human adults who had encountered Samuel Johnson, she wasn’t sure if he was being deliberately cheeky, or was just a very unusual child.

“I’m here to seek a truce. I don’t know what you saw, or thought you saw, in our basement that night, but you’re mistaken. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. We’re just …
visiting
for a time.”

Samuel shook his head. There was something strangely insistent about Mrs. Abernathy’s voice. Samuel recalled a play that they had read about in school, one in which a king was murdered by having poison poured into his ear. Listening to Mrs. Abernathy, he felt just as he imagined the king must have felt as he started to die.

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Samuel. You must learn to keep your mouth shut. If you don’t interfere with me, then I’ll leave you in peace, but if you cross me you won’t even live long enough to regret it. Do you understand?”

Samuel nodded, even as he knew that what Mrs. Abernathy was saying was a lie. There would be no peace for him, or for anyone, if she succeeded with her plans. But her voice was so sweet and hypnotic, and his eyelids were starting to feel so very heavy.

“Come closer, Samuel,” whispered Mrs. Abernathy. “Come closer, and let me whisper in your ear …”

Whisper. Ear. Poison.

In that instant, Samuel sensed the danger he was in. With a great effort of will he pinched himself hard on the hand, using
his nails so that the pain was sharp and he drew blood. He took a step back from Mrs. Abernathy, his head clearing, and he saw her face cloud with rage. One of her hands reached for him, almost as though it had a will of its own.

“You nasty child!” she said. “Don’t think you can escape me that easily. You’d better be careful, unless_”

“Unless what?” said Samuel, goading her now. “Unless I want something bad to happen to me, is that it? What could be worse than a monster under my bed waiting to eat me?”

Mrs. Abernathy got her anger under control. She smiled almost sweetly.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said. “Well then, here it is. Something bad is going to happen to you no matter what you do. The question is: how bad will that something be? When the time comes, I can make it so that you simply fall asleep and never wake up again. But if I choose, I can ensure instead that you never sleep again, and that every moment of your wretched existence is spent in searing agony, gasping for breath and begging for the pain to stop!”

“It sounds like gym class,” said Samuel, with considerable feeling. He was happy that his voice didn’t tremble. It made him appear braver than he was.

Mrs. Abernathy looked past Samuel. He risked a glance in the same direction, and saw his mother approaching.

“You’re so funny, Samuel,” said Mrs. Abernathy, beginning to move away. “When my master comes we’ll see if he finds you quite so amusing. In the meantime, you keep your mouth shut. Remember when I said I’d kill your dog? Well, if you speak of this to your mother, then I’ll kill her instead. I’ll smother her in
her sleep, and no one will ever know except you and I. I met her in the supermarket yesterday. I know you’ve been talking about my affairs. Remember this, Samuel: careless talk costs lives …”

With that she headed off in the direction of town, trailing strong perfume and a faint whiff of burning.

“What did she want?” asked Mrs. Johnson. She was staring at Mrs. Abernathy’s back with ill-concealed distaste. She couldn’t remember why she disliked Mrs. Abernathy so much, just that she did.

“Nothing, Mum,” said Samuel resignedly. “She was just saying hello.”

That evening, Samuel decided that there was no point in telling any grown-up in Biddlecombe of what he knew. They simply wouldn’t believe him. But perhaps someone his own age might. He could no longer deal with all this alone.

Tomorrow, at the risk of being laughed at, he would call upon his friends for help.

S
AMUEL’S DAD CALLED THE
house that night to speak to his son. Samuel tried to tell his dad about the Abernathys’ basement, but his dad only said, “Really?” and “How interesting,” and asked Samuel how he was enjoying his half-term break, and if his mum was okay.

Samuel made one final effort.

“Dad,” he said, “this is serious. I’m not making it up.”

“You think these people, the Abernathys, are carrying out experiments in their basement?” said Mr. Johnson.

“Not experiments,” said Samuel. “I think they were messing about with something that they shouldn’t have been messing about with, and it all went wrong. Now they’ve opened a kind of doorway.”

“Into Hell?”

“Yes, except it’s not working right yet. The door is open, but the gates aren’t.”

“Don’t you usually have to open the gates before the door?” said Mr. Johnson.

“Yes,” said Samuel, “but—”

He stopped.

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” he said. “You don’t believe me.”

“Have you been playing those computer games again, those ones where you have to kill demons? Samuel, put your mum on the phone.” Samuel did, and heard one side of a conversation that seemed to revolve around whether or not he, Samuel, knew the difference between reality and fantasy, and if this was some kind of reaction to the difficulties in their marriage, and if Samuel should see a psychiatrist. The conversation moved on to other matters, and Samuel drifted away.

His mum had a troubled expression on her face when she hung up the phone, as though she realized that she was supposed to remember something important, but couldn’t quite recall what it was.

“Samuel, go to bed early tonight,” said Mrs. Johnson. “Read something that doesn’t involve demons, or ghosts, or monsters, hmmm? For me. And, darling, be careful what you say to people.”

Then she started crying.

“Your dad’s buying a house with that woman, Samuel,” said his mum, through her tears. “He wants a divorce. And he wants to come down and collect that stupid bloody car of his!”

Samuel held his mum, and didn’t speak. After a while, she told him that it was time for bed. He went up to his room and spent a long time staring out of the window, but he didn’t cry. Suddenly, monsters and demons didn’t seem so important anymore. His dad wasn’t coming home again. Meanwhile, he was just a small boy, and nobody—not his mum, not his dad— listened to small boys, not ever. Shortly after nine, he changed into his pajamas, and climbed into bed.