The Devil in green

'Straight away, sir,' Miller said brightly. Gibson appeared pleasantly amused by this.

As they headed down some steps into the basement stores, Mallory muttered sourly, 'Do you have to be so deferential? You should have offered to stick a brush up your arse so you could sweep the floor while we're hauling and toting.'

'It doesn't hurt to be polite. Besides, it makes people smile.'

Mallory snorted. 'Great. I get spud duty with Jesus' little ray of sunshine.'

'You can be very hurtful sometimes, Mallory.' Miller sniffed.

'No. This is hurtful.' Mallory cuffed him around the back of the head.

'Ow!' Miller flashed him a black look and jumped a foot to his right to avoid another blow.

There was a fast movement at floor level when they swung open the storeroom door on to the dark interior. 'Rats,' Mallory noted. 'The way things are, they'll be in the stew soon.'

'How long do you think we can keep going?' Miller asked. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the storeroom was vast, but in the great space the haphazard piles of sacks and crates appeared insignificant.

'I'm not looking forward to Christmas dinner.'

'If we stand firm, whatever's out there might just give up and go away,' Miller suggested hopefully.

Mallory began to investigate the sacks in search of the potatoes. 'I love an optimist as much as the next man, Miller, but you've seen what we're up against. Those kinds of things don't give up, ever. They'll hang on until we're worn down.'

'I don't understand why this is happening. We've not done anything wrong.'

'That's always a matter of perspective.'

A look of curiosity crossed Miller's face. 'What did you do before the Fall, Mallory? Sometimes you sound like a historian, sometimes a philosopher, and sometimes…'

'Yes?'

'… sometimes you act like a yob at closing time.'

Mallory let out a belly laugh. He plucked a potato from a sack and tossed it in the air. 'The only hope we've got is if our great leaders come up with a plan… a counter-strike… anything… that works. Do you have any faith in that?'

'I have lots of faith, Mallory.' Miller attempted to shoulder the sack, but he wasn't strong enough. All he could do was drag it across the floor in jerks like some small child with a too-big toy. 'You see, I have faith in people like you, Mallory. You're a man who gets things done. Why don't you turn your mind to a solution instead of being negative. As always.'

Mallory tossed the potato another time, then hurled it into the shadows. It thudded against a wall and burst.

'You act as if you're apart from all this,' Miller continued breathlessly, 'as if you can just sit back and sneer and be snide. But we're all in it together, Mallory. If people help other people, things get done. Individuals have a responsibility to the community. No one can afford to stand alone, in here or out in the world.'

'I'm sick of hearing about responsibility.' Mallory grabbed another potato and threw it furiously into the dark. It splattered against the stone.

'Don't waste the supplies!'

'Ah, we'll all be dead before we get down to the last potato. They'll be roasting the youngest and tenderest of us in those big ovens long before that.'

The silence prompted Mallory to turn. Miller was staring at him with a comical expression of horror. 'This is a Christian community!' he protested.

'It's survival, Miller. That's what humans do.'

'That's what beasts do.'

Mallory plucked another potato from the sack, tossed it in the air, but caught himself before he threw it. He peered at the wall for a long moment, then marched over and began to rap it with his knuckles.

'What's wrong?' Miller asked.

Mallory turned to him and raised a finger. 'A tunnel.'

Miller's eyes widened. 'Of course. Under the wall.'

'Not just under the wall. To the travellers' camp. It stretches almost up to the cathedral compound now, on both sides of the river. We wouldn't need to dig far. And…' He paused in pride at his idea. '… the camp is protected. By magic, or faith, or whatever you want to call it, but the point is, it's safe ground. The travellers could help us get food in through the tunnel…' He paused. 'After we've managed to build bridges with them. But they're good people…'

Miller looked uneasy. 'You know how Gardener reacted. Do you think our people will be able to deal with the pagans?'

'You were the one preaching about the Brotherhood of Man, Miller, everybody working together. And oddly it dovetails with my philosophy, too. When it comes down to survival, people will do whatever it takes to keep living.'

Miller thought about this for a moment, then smiled. 'We need to tell someone. They should start on it straight away.'

Metallic crashing exploded from the kitchen as if someone had dropped a pile of pans. It was punctuated by a terrified yell. Mallory and Miller rushed upstairs and found the kitchen assistants clustered in one corner of the room. Gibson loomed over them, scrubbing his fingers through his tight grey curls. 'What's going on here? What's going on?' he said in a flap.

One of the chief chefs clambered to his feet from where he had been sprawled on the stone flags. The way his features had been put together suggested he didn't have much time for nonsense, but he was now ashen- faced and his eyes darted around like a frightened animal's.

'It brushed right past him,' said one of the assistants who had helped him to his feet.

'What in heaven's name brushed past him?' Gibson squealed.

The assistant glanced at two or three others in the circle. 'You saw it too, right?' They nodded. The assistant was reticent to continue until Gibson prompted him with a rough shake of his shoulder. 'It was a ghost,' he said, obviously relieved that he'd got it out. 'A ghost of a churchman of some kind… or a monk… hard to tell. I mean, it had the clothes on and everything.'

'A ghost?' Gibson's expression suggested that everyone in the room was malingering.

'We saw it! All of us who were looking this way…'

'It was the face,' the chef muttered. His eyes ranged around the kitchen but couldn't fix on anyone there. 'It looked right at me. The eyes…'He turned and vomited down the side of the range, the heat cooking it instantly and filling the air with a repugnant stink.

'It was old Bishop Ward,' one of the older assistants said. 'I recognised him from the painting that used to hang in the library.'

The chef wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'When it looked at me, it felt as though my insides were being pulled right out through my eyes,' he said.

'Did he say anything?' Miller asked.

'Not in so many words,' the chef replied shakily. 'But it felt as if it was telling me about death… about all our deaths. About the end of the world.'

The study of the bishop's palace had the sumptuous feel of a Victorian gentleman's club: burnished leather high-backed chairs, books, dark wood panelling, Persian carpet, stone fireplace. It was a world away from the cold quarters the brethren endured. For many years it had been the cathedral school, but it had recently been reclaimed as a haven for the bishop from the privations experienced throughout the compound.