Free The Heaven I Swallowed by Rachel Hennessy Page A

their heads tilted reverently downwards into the Well of Contemplation, a circle cut into the floor with a wreath-like, waist-high balustrade surrounding it. I knew what they would see below them. The statue of the spread-eagled figure of a fallen soldier lying on his shield and sword, an emaciated body with not a skerrick of clothing, not even the loincloth given to Christ on the cross. From this level you could see only the boy, not the women who carried him.
    Mr Roper headed over to the winding stairs leading to the Hall of Silence below. I didn’t follow him. Down there he would see the figures of the mother, wife and sister draped in Romanesque clothing, as if to atone for their soldier’s nakedness. Around their feet, a burst sun spread out in brass waves across the floor.
    I walked quietly over to the round balustrade, now wondering if I had brought Mr Roper to the wrong place. Surely, if a young girl were curled up beside the statue—for some reason I imagined her asleep on the sun—the couple would not be looking so placid. Yet if Mr Roper had found her, he would not be able to call out, unable to ignore the plea written in the floor entrance: ‘Let silent contemplation be your offering.’ In all my visits here, I had never heard a word spoken in the chamber below, nor many uttered in this hall. There was something that erased the ability to talk, the weight of death pushing down the air, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. I had often found myself staring at the domed ceiling above—120,000 stars spotted it, one for each WWI volunteer, crowding together so that in the middle it looked like a blanket—only to realise I was holding my breath. The eternal flame wafting gas throughout the edifice did not help either.
    Re-entering had reminded me of the eerie quality of the place. Surely a twelve-year-old girl would not seek this? I loved the way the building was imbued with reverence, stateliness, the supremeness of the sacrifice. Taken up in glory. Here, in stone and bronze, lives made immortal and meaningful, the lives of their women transformed from the ­ordinary into the godly. Mary would not be able to see this. It was a magnificence some did not seek.
    â€˜She’s not here,’ Mr Roper whispered into my ear. I had not heard him return.
    â€˜We’ll look in the park,’ I whispered back. The young couple looked over at us disapprovingly as if we were talking sweet nothings to one another. To be silently reprimanded by them! It was almost more than I could bear. I turned away from Mr Roper, laying my hands on the top of the marble ledge. Mr Roper coughed to signal his impatience and strode away, disappearing down the stairs that lead to the park.
    When I gazed down into the Well of Contemplation again, a shadow moved. A black shape scurried into the space under my feet, out of view. I heard a small hissing sound. Was it a rat? I crossed my arms tightly and leaned over further to catch another glimpse. Over to my right, I could feel the girl of the couple watching me. Had she seen it too? For a moment, leaning over the barrier, I was too scared to move, in case the creature scrambled up over the marble and found its way to me. I tried to breathe slowly, to listen for another sound. I stared now at the gold floor below, at the lines engraved in the flames, which appeared to be rippling. I held myself still, becoming one of the statues below—a wife, a sister or a mother? None of these.
    The girl had left her partner and was standing next to me. She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back from the edge. I sighed.
    â€˜You need to be careful,’ the girl said. Her boyfriend now hovered behind her shoulder, bouncing from foot to foot, not comfortable with this touching of a stranger.
    â€˜Thank you.’ I spoke too loudly. Two red-breasted starlings flew out from the alcove holding the eternal flame. The three of us watched as the