Twelve Days Page 2

  ‘Not much has changed, I see,’ I said to Glen.

  In the old days, granted, there were no cell phones or internet, but on retreats back then we had to surrender our Walkmans and cassette players, and any distractions from temptation that would hinder communication with God. Even books were discouraged, except of course the Bible. And we were segregated so that distractions of the opposite sex did not impede our meditations.

  Glen took the basket. ‘This will be locked up for safekeeping.’

  Shortly thereafter, as Glen had said, Reverend James directed us to separate areas on the first floor – men to the old monks’ quarters to the east side, women to the slightly newer quarters in a separate wing on the west side. Even Linda would be with the women while Reverend James went to be with the men.

  Stephen distributed sturdy black rubber twelve-volt flashlights, one for every person, and spare batteries. ‘Compliments of the castle owner. He apologises for the poor lighting. The power is not good.’

  He also gave each of us a key on a key ring, numbered one through ten. ‘These are your room keys. Please don’t lose them as I don’t have any spares.’

  Each key, I was surprised to see, was slim, modern, flat. ‘I’m a little disappointed, Stephen,’ I said. ‘I was expecting a large dungeon key made of brass.’

  Stephen laughed. ‘The castle for the most part has been entirely modernised, the owner assures me. State-of-the-art kitchen and bathrooms, but for some reason the lighting is faulty.’

  ‘And the heating leaves something to be desired,’ said Mike, hugging himself tightly. ‘You’d think they’d have installed central heating. The corridors are like a deep freeze.’

  ‘I was told heating would be adequate,’ said Stephen. ‘But you’re right; it’s a bit chilly in places. Don’t worry. Each room has a heater, and with that marvellous fireplace in the living room, I’m sure we’ll be able to cope.’

  Away from the heated entrance foyer, the dark passage leading upstairs was freezing, and so dimly lit that it was almost impossible to see without the flashlights. Everywhere outside the living area smelt of rotting damp. And through each window we passed, I glanced out at the dark storm pressing closer, like an impending apocalypse.

  Linda led the women to their quarters in a wing at the near end of the corridor to the left, and Reverend James led the men to our individual cells in a wing on the right. At the end of the corridor, once the women were all in their rooms, Reverend James stopped and turned. ‘So Rafe, you married?’

  It was a surprising question, unrelated to the task at hand. I frowned at him. ‘No.’

  ‘Now that surprises me.’

  I shrugged. ‘Too many to choose from.’

  ‘And you, Glen?’

  ‘With all those military tours of duty, I never had time for relationships.’

  ‘I always thought you and Suzanne would have got together,’ said Reverend James to me.

  In response, Glen held out his right hand in his flashlight beam and turned the ring on his pinkie, taking it off. A white-gold ring with small amethysts encircling a diamond. We crowded around it.

  ‘I remember that ring,’ said Mike. ‘I actually got to wear it for a day.’

  Danny held the ring up to his flashlight. ‘Not me. I never wore it. Never in her favour.’

  ‘What about you, Rafe?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Can’t remember.’ I was not about to discuss my lifelong obsession with Suzanne with these men. I’d worn this ring all through GCSEs for good luck. I’d fantasised about her, almost failed an exam because I had been daydreaming about her. Seeing the ring again made me feel like I’d lost my balance, as if I’d just stepped in quicksand.

  ‘I remember you wearing it,’ said Glen. ‘Of course it meant nothing to her. She played us like cards.’

  Mike took the ring from Danny and placed it on his pinkie for size. He held it up to the dim light. ‘So, Glen, you ended up with it. I wondered where it had got to.’

  Glen laughed. ‘After school, I just asked her for it. She said, “You idiots.” I brought it to see if she still remembers.’

  ‘She probably won’t,’ I said.

  ‘Do not let your heart turn aside to her ways; do not stray into her paths,’ said Danny. ‘Reverend James, that was the Bible verse you used to quote to me.’

  Reverend James flashed his light at the doors at the end of the corridor. ‘Proverbs 7, verse 25. I hope those foolish days of pining after Suzanne are long gone.’

  ‘Long gone,’ said Glen. He walked up a small flight of steps at the end of the dark, cold corridor to the left. ‘The tower,’ he said, ‘is up here.’

  Danny and Mike found their rooms, and Reverend James pointed to the end of the corridor on the right. ‘Your room, Rafe, is over there. Bathroom to your right. Supper’s at six. See you then.’

  Though it had to be no later than five o’clock, night already surrounded the castle. Wind blew something, shutters perhaps, and a distant bang echoed through the corridor.

  I fitted the key into what looked to be a brand-new lock and entered a room with narrow, tall windows. I turned on the light. The icy air stopped my breath. Particles of dust caught in the light and spiralled down. The spores caught in my throat. The history of this room spoke of centuries of misery and suffering and cold and isolation. The walls were thick enough so that a person could scream and no one would hear in the next room. Everything was freezing to the touch. I cranked up the heater to full and it ticked and radiated feeble warmth into the thousand-year-old air. Darkness reigned outside, although the lights in the castle did cast a faint glow. In that glow, I could see that sleet and snow had already covered all traces of the road up to the front entrance.

  I wondered now if I could order a cab and hightail it out of here. Always have a back-door exit plan was my motto. But I could see by the way the weather was deteriorating that soon there would be little possibility of any kind of vehicle getting through this mountain pass.

  I needed to shower, but the designated men’s bathroom was occupied, so I stumbled down the corridor to the women’s wing and found another bathroom at the end. I locked myself in and turned on the shower taps full blast. The castle may have been old, but the bathroom was all marble and glass. And the water was scalding hot.

  I heard a rap on the door as I was towelling myself dry.

  ‘Just a minute! Be out soon.’

  I dressed and opened the door.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’ She stood in the dimly lit corridor, a towel wrapped around her, clothes in her hand.

  ‘Suzanne. Wow, what are you doing here?’ I was completely caught off guard.

  She wrapped the towel tighter around her chest. ‘This is the girls’ bathroom, you know.’ That ironic smile on her face. Her warm voice. The same Suzanne. Her lips were full, her cheekbones high and the skin under her eyes tight. Her blonde hair had been swept back into a ponytail, so the nape of her neck was exposed.

  Her eyes fixed on me, and a dizzy past blew over me. ‘You look well, Rafe.’

  ‘You too.’ Twenty years and she still treated me like a gawky teenager. ‘I’m an author. And a professor. In that order.’

  ‘Of course, your book. I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Have you read it?’ I couldn’t help feeling small, as if I was seeking her approval. Just like the old days.

  She laughed. ‘I don’t have time to read!’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I was fighting a battle here, not so much within myself – I could watch this scene from a wry distance – but to not give her what she demanded. It was clear to me now exactly how it worked. Suzanne expected something, required it, from all men. She had been Miss Beauty Queen at school, had gone on to be a model, and later, in a series of strokes of good fortune, made it to Hollywood – the big time.

  She pushed past me and into the bathroom, where she stared into the mirror and inspected her face. She shook her hair loose. I followed her back into the bathroom and watched her
in the mirror. ‘I’m between movies at the moment,’ she said. ‘And you? I heard you have a PhD.’

  ‘I teach philosophy at the University of California.’

  ‘You were always the brains of the bunch. I knew you’d go far.’

  ‘Far is a metaphor. A matter of opinion.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘How’s Jerry?’

  The tabloids had followed her every step of the way, their courtship, marriage, honeymoon in the Seychelles, the growing bump in her stomach, her first baby. The paparazzi needed someone to follow, and she had led them a merry dance for years, until some new young thing had taken her place and she had contented herself in playing the role of a sexy middle-aged woman.

  ‘Jerry’s fine. We’re sort of separated now, as you probably know.’

  ‘I don’t believe everything I read in the tabloids.’

  ‘Well, they got that one right.’

  ‘How’s Hollywood treating you?’

  She walked to the shower and turned it on. Tested the water temperature. ‘Hideous place, as you know. We live up in Santa Rosa. Our two kids are almost grown up now.’

  ‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’

  Suzanne looked uneasy. I vaguely remembered some scandal in Hollywood that she had become embroiled in, with some movie director, a media frenzy in the tabloids. But this was par for the course for her. She had constant media attention. I was surprised the paparazzi hadn’t followed her here. But then, we were cut off from the world. Probably a relief for her.

  I pointed to the door. ‘I’d better…’

  ‘Later then.’

  I closed the bathroom door behind me. My heart pounded. But of course, she did that to everyone. That was why she was a movie star. They paid her millions of dollars to broadcast a carefully constructed yet entirely bewitching sulky smile into every man’s yearning heart.

  At 6pm, we gathered back in the living room; all except Suzanne. The men threw hungry looks in the direction of the stairs leading up to the women’s cells, but she was, I assumed, playing her usual game of Being Noticeably Absent. She had perfected this art decades ago. Reverend James had an announcement to make. He clapped his hands for attention and we stood around him as though we were still teenagers. ‘Some of you have expressed a desire to see the torture museum. It is officially closed for the winter, but the concierge has given me permission to take you all for a peek.’ He held up a large bronze key. ‘Just don’t touch anything. Follow me.’

  He led us up the stairs again, to a southern wing away from the bedrooms. Pushing through the large wooden door, we found ourselves in a cold, dark, high-ceilinged room with small windows. A shadowy object sat in the middle of the room. Stephen flipped a switch and the room was flooded with dim Gothic light from four cobwebby chandeliers. I stared up at a polished-steel blade at the top of a high wooden frame. At the base of the frame stood a platform, positioned below the guillotine blade.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Glen. ‘See where the head is placed, just at the right angle for decapitation.’

  Alison winced.

  ‘Signor Rossi is well known for his rare collection of torture instruments. He keeps them in tiptop shape, for viewings,’ said Reverend James.

  Above the guillotine, Glen pointed out eight storefront dummies suspended by ropes from a bar in the roof, nooses around their necks.

  Alison shuddered and after a quick glance, would not look up again.

  ‘Ghoulish,’ said Danny.

  Linda was browsing items in a display cabinet. ‘Gross!’

  I read the inscription above the items she was staring at. ‘Scottish thumbscrews, circa seventeenth century. Tongue-extractor, possibly Spanish, 1501–1800.’

  ‘Eugh.’

  Reverend James passed on to other items on display on the long trestle table. ‘Hair shirt. Cat-o’-nine-tails for self-flagellation. And look at this mask!’

  Mike shone his flashlight on an iron mask. The face of a demon had been etched on the outside – pointy ears, forked tongue, wild eyes. On the inside, two long spikes faced inwards for the eyes, two smaller ones for the nostrils, and a long, curved, two-pronged fork represented the mouth.

  It looked to me as if Reverend James relished pointing out each torture instrument, dwelling on its capacity for cruel pain. I stared at him, and an old loathing welled up in me. It was absurd by anyone’s standards to spend Christmas in an isolated castle full of macabre medieval torture instruments.

  ‘It makes my eyes ache and my throat close up just to think of it,’ said Alison.

  ‘Hideous,’ said Linda.

  ‘A slow death by asphyxiation,’ said Mike. ‘It would gouge out your eyes, stop you breathing, tear out your tongue and block your windpipe.’

  ‘The Middle Ages were b-barbaric,’ said Danny.

  ‘Tell us more about this Mister Rossi,’ said Mike. ‘He sounds creepy.’

  ‘Stephen and I met him when we were arranging our stay here,’ said Glen. ‘He’s a businessman. Very handsome, polite, and totally obsessed with the past.’

  ‘And the crowds keep coming, apparently,’ said Stephen. ‘People are fascinated by torture.’

  ‘Look over here.’ Mike shone his flashlight on an open, upright coffin in the corner of the room. The insides were fitted with sharp steel spikes top to bottom, bottom to top, like grinning teeth. ‘You put a man in here and… spike him through.’

  ‘Or a woman,’ I said.

  ‘The iron maiden’, it said on the plaque. On the outside, a figure had been carved on the sarcophagus of a naked woman with full breasts, pudenda, and face in a mask of frozen terror and anguish.

  Alison was holding her stomach tightly. She looked as if she was about to throw up.

  Linda ran her fingers along a rectangular wooden frame, raised from the ground, with a roller at both ends.

  ‘That’s the rack,’ said Stephen. ‘You tie the victim onto here and stretch him until his joints are dislocated.’

  ‘And this looks like a giant spinning wheel,’ said Linda. She touched the crossbar, which was fixed on to a large wooden wheel, and turned it. It creaked loudly.

  Stephen peered at the diagram above it and the explanation of how it worked. ‘You tie the victim to the crossbar and spin him around – to break his bones.’

  ‘A Catherine wheel,’ said Mike, reading, ‘named for St Catherine of Alexandria, who was tied to its seven spokes and beaten. Let’s go for a spin.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You first.’

  ‘Whoever this Signor Rossi is, he’s a sadistic creep,’ said Mike, reading each inscription.

  ‘It’s history,’ said Stephen.

  ‘It’s fascinating,’ said Glen.

  ‘I hate it.’ Linda turned away.

  Alison stood by a metal bull in the other corner of the room. ‘And this?’

  ‘The brazen bull,’ Mike read from the plaque attached to its rump. ‘This must be the worst way to die. They place the victim inside the bull here’ – he opened a trapdoor in the bull’s hindquarters – ‘and stoke this fire underneath its belly until the victim literally is roasted alive and melts into fat. Ugh.’

  I read out loud. ‘The bull has an acoustic apparatus that converts screams into the sound of a bull for the pleasure of those watching.’

  ‘They made a real fire here,’ said Mike, pointing to the kindling and briquettes underneath the bull and the blackened underbelly. ‘Do you think they demonstrate these torture instruments for visitors?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Hey, this bull has udders.’ I crouched down to examine the hind end of the bull, where hollow tubes with holes at the end had been welded onto the belly, and a bowl placed underneath. ‘It says this is where the liquid remains and fat of the victim is collected.’

  Glen tapped the brazen bull with his hand and it gave out a hollow ring. ‘Those torturers were not good at anatomy, obviously.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Linda. �
��Why collect the fat of the poor victim?’

  ‘It makes a nourishing soup,’ I said.

  ‘Stop it, Rafe.’

  I read the plinth: ‘The bronze bull was invented by Perillos of Athens, who presented his ingenious method of executing criminals to Phalaris of Sicily in 550 bce. The Sicilian tyrant was so taken with the idea that he tested it out on no other than Perillos himself. Made to the exact proportions of a handsome bull, even to details such as its magnificent horns and prominent genitals, the bronze bull was bizarrely “improved” by the Romans with the later addition of udders, making it a transvestite bovine creature. The udders were added so that the juices of the victim would drain out of the bottom of the bull and delight spectators with “milk”. It was rumoured that this “milk” was collected and imbibed. According to historical records, when the bull was opened afterwards, the bones of the victim “shone like jewels and were made into bracelets”.’

  ‘I’m suitably sickened,’ said Mike.

  Alison hugged her stomach. ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Reverend James. He held up his hands. ‘There is a reason why I brought you to this torture museum today.’

  Aha. There was method to his madness. He had organised this macabre tour as a prelude to an impromptu sermon. I knew this man too well.

  ‘Tomorrow is the Feast of St Stephen, the first martyr,’ said Reverend James. ‘Each day I will read you a chapter of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, how the early Christians were tortured to death for their faith. They suffered horrific deaths for their faith.’

  Moral lesson number one.

  I had underestimated my staying power. I had come all this way to lay the ghosts of my infatuation to rest, but I hadn’t bargained on what it would really be like to spend twelve days with a bunch of religious fanatics led by a lunatic. Especially if the object of my infatuation was not going to even play the game.

  Supper was at six o’clock. I traced my way through labyrinthine corridors, down the stairs and into the dining room, guided by the smell of roast meat.