Free August by Bernard Beckett Page A

saw in his wizened features the old man he would never become. The little boy’s eyes opened momentarily and in his exhausted half blink Grace glimpsed the vastness of the human tragedy. She was no more able to understand the world’s cruelty than he was, and, like him, she would never recover.
    â€˜I am not permitted to open the gate.’
    The mother did not cry. She did not beg. She knew there was nothing left to be gained. She had one choice remaining; she must have known that all along. The woman blanched with the shock of what would come next, even as she succumbed to its necessity.
    â€˜I cannot,’ she whispered at Grace. ‘I cannot take my child away to die.’
    The women knelt and deposited her baby on the step and then, surely terrified her resolve would crumble if she lingered, turned and stumbled into the darkness.
    Grace clambered down from her post, her body moving to commands her mind couldn’t hear. She had the gate’s heavy bolt halfway across when her hand was slapped down.
    Grace turned to see Sister Angela, the nun’s bottom lip trembling, whether in sadness or fury it was impossible to say. The sister moved to the gate and her face, silhouetted now by the orange glow of the security light, turned to blackness. Grace shielded her eyes with her hand, attempting to block out the dirty halo and read the old woman’s expression. But there was only age to see, and a mouth tightening around its words.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ Sister Angela hissed.
    â€˜You don’t understand,’ Grace said, relieved that of all the nuns God had sent her Sister Angela. ‘There is a baby. He is dying.’
    Sister Angela swayed for a moment, as if uncertain, and the light behind her flashed a warning. Her ancient hands drew the bolt fully back and she opened the gate just a crack, bending down to look closely at the package.
    â€˜He is a child of the night,’ she pronounced. ‘He cannot be saved.’
    Grace’s head turned clumsy with shock. She shook it, vaguely aware that soon her mouth would open and the trouble would grow deeper. But not as deep as the baby’s trouble. This was her one clear thought: Do not be cowed; he needs you .
    â€˜Are you going to help him, Sister?’
    The old woman placed a bony hand on Grace’s shoulder and her voice became gentle.
    â€˜Your shift is finished. Hurry back to bed.’
    â€˜But you won’t let him die?’ Grace pressed.
    Sister Angela turned from her and the light caught the old woman’s glistening eyes.
    â€˜Go to bed,’ she repeated. ‘We cannot always guess at His mysteries. I am sorry.’
    Grace wanted to scream, to struggle, and to rage. She wanted to force them to drag her spitting from the scene, shouting their murder to the sky. The church was wrong and no amount of praying and scrubbing the steps of the sacred places could cleanse it. But instinct kept her quiet. There was another way. She lowered her head in what she hoped would appear to be submission and walked back to her lonely bed. She counted time: she waited.
    Although few knew it, all of the holy buildings were riddled with hidden passages, a legacy of the time of war. Grace had discovered a tunnel when she was first recovering from the exorcism. During those days she had drifted uneasily between wakefulness and sleep, prone to the smallest suggestion. Twice she was sure Josephine visited her, and another time she was certain she saw an angel.
    It was a dark figure, possessing a male’s posture and dressed in the robes of an Augustinian priest. But Grace understood no priest would ever visit the convent at night and in her feverish, childish mind decided she was seeing a vision. The vision flitted past the open door at the end of the dormitory.
    She understood immediately that she was meant to follow it. Angels were not seen unless they intended it. She tracked him to the chapel and from there along a