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disturbed for the next six hours. And then I shall ask you to pray for me
while I go alone to St Adrian's churchyard in an attempt to drive out the evil
that began with the interment of William Gardiner and has grown in power over
the years. It is a battle I must win for a lot of reasons.'
CHAPTER FOUR
SABAT AWOKE just as the last rays of the setting sun were making weak patterns
on the wall above his bed, squares and diamonds that faded even as he lay
watching them. Then came dusk, darkening the room.
Something he was aware of the moment he sat up and swung his legs to the
floor; a freedom of movement unhindered by pain, his head no longer throbbed
and the earlier bouts of dizziness had not returned. He gave way to a
momentary feeling of euphoria, the knowledge that his deep untroubled sleep,
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during which his astral had remained close to him, had healed him as
effectively as that doctor at the hospital and all his modern drugs could have
done over a period of weeks. Not miracle healing, just a matter of mind over
body. And Sabat was ready for battle.
He dressed slowly with the ease of one preparing for a social evening,
brushing flecks of dust from his
somewhat crumpled and singed dark jacket, checking his .38 to ensure that it
was fully loaded. The crucifix, the garlic cloves; he recalled how they had
bounced harmlessly off Quentin that time but that had been his own fault, a
wavering of his faith just when he needed it most. Had his faith been strong
enough then his brother would have been destroyed forever. Grimly he recalled
a childhood fable, a story his mother had once read him about Sinbad the
Sailor, how Sinbad had been accursed, compelled to carry that vile Old Man of
the Sea on his back wherever he went. Little did the God-fearing Mrs Sabat
realise that one day that fate would befall her own two sons in a deadly
battle of their souls.
As Sabat went downstairs the Reverend Maurice Storton opened the door of his
study and shuffled out into the hall. The old clergyman looked tired and
strained, a pathetic figure nearing the end of his days.
Yet he still retained an expression of stubbornness and determination, the
will to go down fighting. He was not going to surrender his pride easily.
'Mr Sabat,' he said, 'perhaps it would be best if we both went along tonight.'
'No,' Sabat gripped him by the hand, 'not tonight, Reverend. You can help me
best by staying here and praying.'
'It is very dangerous, isn't it?' A sudden flicker of fear in those old grey
eyes. 'More dangerous than even you have told me.'
'Yes,' there was nothing to be gained by trying to cover up the full extent of
the perils of this night, 'the most dangerous task I have ever faced. 'Wait up
for me if you will, but . . . but if I do not return . . .
remember there is nothing more that can be done. Don't even attempt a second
exorcism for they will have won. Leave the evil to spawn their evil.' And he
muttered to himself: 'for I shall then be one of them out there!'
Maurice Storton watched his visitor step outside and close the door softly
behind him. The curate's hand trembled as he crossed himself and only then did
he appreciate the full extent of his fear. For years he had preached against
evil but he had never realised just what evil was until this moment.
Sabat took full advantage of the shadows on the short walk to the church, a
fugitive of the night hours.
There was always the possibility of a policeman being posted to watch the
churchyard and Plowden's threats concerning Sabat's return could waste
valuable time and do untold damage. Delay at this stage would be fatal. He was
taking no chances. The next gale would in all probability demolish the
lichgate, Sabat decided as he passed through it. The weathercock and a few
more slates would go, too. It was all part of a godless plot by the Left Hand
Path, harnessing the forces of Nature for their own ends.
He unlocked the church door and stepped inside but did not put on the lights.
Once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he would be able to see enough
to carry out what he had to do. And there was no time to be lost.
Even as he filled the chalice from the tap in the vestry and carried it [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]