Free Deadly Sin by James Hawkins

Eiffel Tower,” sings out the squirmy six-year-old on Bliss’s left, and a child’s boney elbow digs into his groin as he follows the snake of the Seine across the urban landscape.
    â€œSorry, sir … just excited,” explains the young mother as she yanks her infant back into his seat, but this is third time, starting with the Channel and the White Cliffs of Dover. “It’s his first trip,” she carries on as she straps him firmly down. “You know what they’re like …”
    Bliss grumbles “Kids” in agreement, but he sees the young boy’s face crumple, and the start of a tear, and ismomentarily spun into the future, where he quickly adds flying and patience to his grandfatherly responsibilities.
    â€œHere — you have the window,” he says with a smile, already unbuckling. But he pauses long enough to peer down at the French capital in time to make out the monstrous Notre Dame cathedral on the Île de la Cité.
    It is a scorching afternoon, and Daphne, under the shade of a broad-rimmed sombrero, also has her sights on a French cathedral, Norman to be precise, built on the marshlands of Westchester in the late eleventh century by the ruddy-faced King William II — William Rufus — when Normandy and England were united against the rest of France.
    â€œThere has to be more to this than meets the eye,” Daphne mutters in puzzlement as she weaves her way around and around the cathedral’s medieval labyrinth seeking some kind of revelation. “It just doesn’t make any bloomin’ sense.”
    But life itself no longer makes much sense, and as she plants herself in the centre of the labyrinth and peers up at the cathedral’s crucifix-topped spire, she is more certain than ever that she has been deceived. Despite her age, she still vividly recalls a time of childhood innocence when loving thy neighbour, turning the other cheek, and being nice to your snotty little brother would ensure a life of peace and happiness; a time filled with the syrupy mantras of rosy-faced Sunday school teachers and rosy-nosed village parsons who cherry-picked the Bible and dusted the carefully chosen fruit with their own particular sugary glaze. But as a twenty-year-old at the outbreak of war in 1939, the frosting was cracking and turning sickly as she watched newsreels of straight-faced chaplains blessing the deadly munitions while petitioning the Almighty to annihilate the enemy in His name.
    I suppose it’s a waste of time asking you to vaporize the Jenkinses
, she thinks angrily as she stares skyward.
You’d rather take nice quiet people like Phil and Maggie, and Minnie and
—
    â€œHello. Are you still looking?”
    Daphne snaps herself back to earth and spins to find Angel Robinson on her shoulder.
    â€œYou won’t find the answers you seek here, Daphne,” continues the flowery woman with a psychic’s conviction. “But I could lead the way for you.”
    The certainty of Angel’s tone, and the strength of her gaze, root Daphne to the labyrinth’s core, while one invisible hand brushes the hairs on the nape of her neck and another squeezes her chest.
    â€œI … I … really should … um … should get going,” stammers the uneasy woman as she tries to unglue her feet.
    â€œYou’re not alone,” continues Ms. Robinson with a soothing hand on Daphne’s forearm. “You’re surrounded by kind spirits.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I really must go — lots to do,” jabbers Daphne, breaking the gaze. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have to get some food for my cat.”
    â€œReally?” the other woman questions with a raised eyebrow, and Daphne turns pink as she looks for a quick exit. But she is in the centre of a web, and the only way out is the narrow winding path that brought her in.
    â€œExcuse me,” says Daphne, fiercely pulling her