Monument

‘Beautiful weather,’ said the old woman holding her suitcase, as the train pulled into Dingwall Station. The man who called himself Josiah MacKenzie, dressed in a black frock-coat, dog-collar and pinstriped trousers smiled and said ‘Yes indeed, very clement,’ as the train shuddered to a halt. He let the old lady out first, into the bright July sunshine. He followed, carrying only a furled umbrella. He walked quietly to the end of the platform, preparing to cross the bridge. It came as no great surprise to the Reverend when a local gardener tried to kill him.

     The middle-aged handyman swung a sharp pair of shears at the young minister’s forehead with a viciousness that seemed entirely unwarranted. Most men dressed as Josiah was would probably have been taken by surprise, but not he. He ducked before the implement had finished its arc towards him, and jabbed the umbrella at his attacker, knocking the shears from his hand. The sun shone brightly on the scene, marking out the minister dressed in black, his dark rust-red hair seeming on fire for a moment.

     The gardener stood sullenly at the mercy of the umbrella, then his eyes brightened as a window cleaner coming up behind them hurled a razor-sharp tile at the other’s red head. Josiah’s instincts made him duck, and the projectile passed sharply into the gardener’s stomach. He cried out, and fell over. Josiah’s umbrella flashed backwards and poleaxed the slater too. He bent over the gardener, who lay slumped with a curious expression of hatred in his eyes. ‘It’ll never work,’ said Josiah softly. ‘I won’t give them up.’ He patted the man’s shoulder lightly, as if out of concern for him. The station was deserted.

     Josiah whistled as he walked on his way, using the umbrella as a stick. He walked calmly out onto the High Street, strolling elegantly on a bright summer morning. He turned the second street to the right, nodding to various people he met. He arrived shortly at a red-bricked house, and pressed the doorbell, tapping lightly with the umbrella on the doorstep. The door opened to reveal a thirtyish man about Josiah’s age, a long-term friend. ‘Hallo, Dougal,’ said Josiah warmly, extending his hand. The other man smiled, and looked furtively about as if he were familiar with the nature of Josiah’s real work.

     ‘Come away in,’ he said quietly. The man in black acquiesced, and walked into the pleasant house. He did not leave the umbrella by the door, but took it with him into the drawing-room. Josiah walked over to a creaky armchair and sat down slowly. He kept the umbrella by his side, and did not let go of it. He looked up at Dougal.

     ‘How are you then yourself?’ the man in black asked him. Dougal stood in the door, then came slowly into the room. Behind him, a kettle could be heard slowly beginning to boil. Certain things did not need to be said. He sat down heavily on a settee.

     ‘It’s been a long while. Maybe not long enough.’ Josiah nodded understandingly. He had been in this position before. He knew he did not have to say anything. He sat there, still holding his umbrella lightly as the shadows lengthened slowly outside. There was no sign of rain. The kettle boiled. Dougal got up, and could be heard assembling a tea tray through in the kitchen.

     Josiah looked around the room. Little had changed since he was a boy. The same photos were still on the mantelpiece, the model ship on the piano. Lively music could be heard from the kitchen radio. At a glance from Josiah, Dougal sighed and switched it over to a classical station. He came through with the tray, which he placed carefully on a coffee table. He’d preserved things as much as he could while his parents were alive. They closed their eyes briefly as was the old custom, then he poured. Josiah waited a minute for a stronger brew, idly tapping the carpet with his ever-present umbrella. Dougal seemed to notice it for the first time, and was amused. ‘How’s the forecast, that you need that for?’

     Josiah smiled slightly. ‘The forecast’s for change,’ he said quietly.

     ‘I remember when you first went in for the Ministry,’ said Dougal, with a sudden uncharacteristic directness. They had chosen different lives, but did not often talk about their choices.

     ‘You wanted to be a pilot,’ said Josiah, leaning forward and pouring himself a cup of tea with his left hand, maintaining a grip on the umbrella with his right.

     ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made of,’ quoted Dougal. Josiah smiled, leaning back and holding the umbrella. He sipped the tea slowly, watching his friend. Dougal’s eyes were resting on the model of the tea clipper on the piano. ‘Things change,’ he muttered. ‘I have this house, I like things as they were.’ Outside a shadow seemed to fall across the day. Josiah sipped his tea quietly, watching the sky outside. ‘What time’s the meeting?’ said Dougal abruptly.

     ‘Seven as usual,’ said Josiah promptly. ‘We expect a good turnout.’ Dougal nodded. He stood up and crossed over to the model ship. He pressed the door of the cabin beneath the mainsail, and something clicked into his hand. Josiah still sat calmly, tea in hand. Dougal turned around slowly, a strange expression on his face. He was holding a knife which had been concealed inside the ship.

     ‘Times change,’ said Dougal slowly. ‘But we should still be friends.’ A slight tremor crossed Josiah’s face for the first time. He took another sip of tea and replaced the cup on its saucer, on the coffee table.

     ‘Sit down, friend,’ he said quietly. ‘The Service demands more of me than you know.’

     ‘Give me the Red Files,’ said Dougal, his tone light yet threatening.

     ‘What’s happened to you?’ asked Josiah, face lined with the knowledge of what must come now. Dougal concealed the knife behind his back for a moment.

     ‘If you co-operate, then the time is right,’ he muttered as if to himself.

     ‘Time for what?’ said Josiah, taking another sip of his tea.

     ‘Change.’

     ‘I thought you wanted to keep things the same.’

     ‘Some things have to change. Have to die.’ The knife was out again, inching towards Josiah’s face. Calmly, the man in black replaced the cup in its saucer again, and aimed the umbrella at Dougal’s hand in the same movement. The implement was much sturdier than it looked, to judge by the impact it made on Dougal’s hand, yet he did not drop the knife. He lunged towards the seat. Josiah moved only just in time as the knife ripped the upholstery in an ugly arc. Dougal fell forward with the impetus of his attack: by the time he recovered, Josiah was standing behind him, the ferrule of the umbrella lodged firmly in his friend’s back.

     ‘You should know better than to move again,’ the red-haired man said, as quietly as before. ‘But then, I thought of you as a better friend.’ Josiah reached over with his left hand and resumed drinking his interrupted tea. ‘I hate wasting tea,’ said the minister. He indicated that Dougal should sit in the chair he had just vacated himself, and he did so. He seemed a little in fear of the umbrella. Josiah finished his cup, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he took from his pocket with his free hand. ‘I don’t think I’ll have a second cup,’ he said mildly. The sun shone through the window behind him, making his red hair seem almost on fire. Josiah seemed suddenly very bright, very righteous. Dougal grew paler, by contrast.

     Just ten minutes later, Josiah let himself out of the house. He still carried his umbrella. He crossed the road and looked up the hill nearby. The summer skyline seemed an endless blue. If it had escaped his notice that he was now standing next to a large church, he was brought sharply down to earth by an old lady, who tapped him firmly on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ she said firmly. ‘When is the prayer meeting?’

     ‘Er, seven tonight,’ he said uncertainly. ‘All welcome.’

     ‘Are you the new minister from Lewis?’

     ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Josiah, trying to make his accent a little more Western Isles than it had been. The old lady peered at him suspiciously, clutching her shopping.

     ‘You don’t sound like one,’ she said slowly.

     ‘Ah… well, I have sojourned a while in the tents of Bethel,’ he said vaguely. The lady looked at him with a new respect. She muttered something about the time, and walked off slowly. Josiah smiled wryly. He looked up at the sky, then at the hill again, with a worried expression. What had to come would come. For now, he had other errands to run. He turned around smartly and began walking westwards through the town, whistling ‘Que sera sera’. Still he had the umbrella, using it like a walking stick as it clicked the pavement every so often. He walked up the pedestrianized High Street, and carried on past the police station. He continued on into Mill Street, and went into the well-known butcher’s.

     ‘Good afternoon,’ he said crisply to the woman serving. ‘One large haggis, please.’ Noticing some people outside whom he recognised from a previous job, he thought it wise to stay a little longer. He also ordered a steak pie and three mince pies, checking surreptitiously out the window every so often. He proceeded from there to a children’s play park, where he proceeded to eat the pies, and deposited the haggis in a hedge, with a note tucked underneath its label. He waited up to an hour, walking very slowly around the perimeter of the park. Checking his watch again, Josiah looked up the hill to the tower commemorating the war hero Hector MacDonald, and frowned at the slowly lengthening shadows. He left the park, walking very slowly in the direction of the hill, as if to put off an unpleasant destiny. He met a descending tourist party on the way up, who asked him the time. He smiled and told them it was 2.30. he seemed a burdened pilgrim as they passed by, not anxious to reach his destination. Josiah paused to look down on the church he had been pressed about earlier. He smiled in a bittersweet way. There would be a turnout indeed. He rounded the brae, puffing slightly. Despite his training, he was not as fit as he might be.

     Josiah walked over to a bench situated beside the graveyard that surrounded the base of the tower, and surveyed the view. He half-closed his eyes, the umbrella still with him. Then a rattling sound came from the nearby tower, and the door was slowly unlocked. Josiah remained still, seeming half-asleep. A man in a long black coat emerged, his back to Josiah as he carefully re-locked the door. The newcomer was an African, also dressed as a minister, in similar attire to Josiah, dog-collar and waistcoat immaculate. He carried his coat over his arm. He looked around in an absent-minded fashion, looking at the tourists below before glancing at Josiah. His face gave nothing away. He walked among the graves, looking at some inscriptions, pausing to brush off the moss from one, peering at another.

     Presently Josiah yawned and stretched, and got up off his bench. Casually he wandered around until he was standing on the other side of the grave where the African was standing. ‘Greetings, brother,’ said the other in a rich voice. ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’

     ‘Pray the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send workers into the field,’ said Josiah quietly. There was still no change in the other’s expression, but there was a slight lessening of tension.

     ‘I think the weather may change, brother,’ said the African. ‘Let us retire to consider our position.’ They walked slowly over to the door to the tower. Again the new man produced his keys like an old-time warder. They found some more tourists milling around the door.

     ‘Excuse me, sir? When is this ancient monument open?’ asked a white-haired man in his 60s, in an American accent, addressing Josiah. Perhaps the strain of recent events had taken their toll: he felt unable to respond. His colleague sighed.

     ‘Reverend Zedekiah Samuntai,’ said the African warmly. ‘You must come to church sometime.’

     ‘Well, in the South…’ the other started. Zedekiah carried on regardless.

     ‘But for now, my brother and I have urgent things to discuss. We must have time to ourselves. We come here to remember a war hero, and to pray for revival.’ The American opened his mouth again, but by now Zedekiah had the door open, and ushered Josiah inside. He poked his head out again briefly. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said softly, ‘but I would not consider 1907 as being very ancient.’ The door was closed, and audibly locked from the other side.

     Josiah seemed to revive in the cold stone interior. He renewed his grip on the ever-present umbrella, he smiled at his colleague, who led the way across a hallway to the foot of some stairs. ‘Come, my brother,’ said Zedekiah firmly. He began to ascend the steep flight of spiral stone steps. They neared the top, and Zedekiah turned round to face Josiah for a moment. ‘Think of the harvest,’ he said urgently. He walked out onto the surface of the monument’s roof, and fell suddenly in a thunderclap that echoed around the still afternoon. Blood oozed slowly from his left shoulder. Beyond the fallen agent stood Dougal, his revolver smoking. He looked calm and fanatical.

     ‘Son of the morning,’ said Josiah quietly.

     ‘Son of Olaf, actually, if you take it literally,’ said his former friend. ‘Give me the Red Files.’

     ‘No,’ croaked Zedekiah, attempting to rise. Dougal looked at him coldly.

     ‘You cannot interfere. Our course is set.’ He levelled his gun at the wounded man. Zedekiah exchanged a look with Josiah.

     Josiah raised the umbrella like a sword, and spoke quickly into the handle. ‘Code Red Omega.’ He pressed the handle. The umbrella unfurled slowly, like a deadly flower, somehow growing more menacing with its size. Josiah shut his eyes. A slow red dust drifted out from the spokes into the still summer afternoon. It fell very gradually. When it settled, not one of the three men remained on the rooftop.