Free The Parliament of the Dead by T.A. Donnelly

warmth,“we have one job to do tonight, then we must prepare for tomorrow’s operation.”
    One of the monks with grey-black hair frowned,“I was not informed about any actions before tomorrow.”
    Father Pious rubbed his chin,“Just one: a highwayman.”
    The monk furrowed his brow.
    “A special case,”Father Pious continued,“he’s pretending to be alive.”
    The monk shook his close-cropped head,“Why don’t you just take him out with the rest of the Parliament?”
    “He’s an outsider.  My source tells me that he will not be attending.”
    “You have spies?” For the first time the monk seemed to approve. “That is excellent.  Can we meet with them before the attack?”
    “I’m afraid our informant is dead,”Father Pious admitted through tight lips.
    “That’s unfortunate, when did he die?  Can you be sure his information is still reliable?”
    “I think he died about two hundred years ago.”Irritation was mounting in Father Pious’voice, he was not accustomed to being questioned. “And he is very reliable - high up in the Parliament.”
    The monks looked disapproving:“You mean to say that your informant is one of them ?”
    “You do not like my methods?” Father Pious tutted.  “You would do well to study Holy Scripture.  In the book of Joshua, Rahab the pagan harlot helped the Israelites’soldiers.  Only through the assistance of the enemy did Jericho fall into the hands of God’s people.”
    The monks murmured together, and were silenced by a grim look from their leader. “But the Israelites spared Rahab when they slaughtered the rest of her city.  You cannot seriously plan to let this ghost , this abomination , survive?”
    Father Pious looked at the floor for a moment, then spoke briskly,“Oh no, of course not.  In the end he’ll be exorcised with the rest of them.”
     
     
    Chapter Twenty-Five
    An Interview
with the Undead
     
    “Of course, you’re dead!”cried Iona,“It all makes sensenow.  Living people need toilets and kitchens.  I bet you can’t smell anything when you’re dead, right?”
    Arthur shook his head with a sad smile:“I can’t eat, I can’t drink, I can’t taste anything or smell anything.  I have a greatly reduced sense of touch.”
    Iona looked horrified.
    “Oh, don’t pity me.  I had a life, and my after-life is better than some.  There is a ghostly maid in a small hotel in Dundee, who is doomed to spend eternity as an incorporeal phantom; whose sole mission in death is turning the kitchen’s bread mouldy.”
    Iona, who had been standing throughout the conversation, sat down on one of Arthur’s old wooden chairs. 
    “So,”she leaned forward as she spoke,“what happens when you die?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What do you mean you don’t know?  You’re dead aren’t you?”
    “Yes, but only a few of us come back like this.  The rest go wherever they go.  Only those with unfinished business linger as ghosts,”Arthur shrugged,“but I really try and not think about these things.  Being dead is just as mysterious as being alive.”
    Iona looked at the floor. “My dad’s dead.”
    “I know,”Arthur said softly,“when you told me you were descended from Tom King I made some enquiries.”
    “Enquiries to find out if he’s one of you?  Is he a ghost?  Tell me he is.”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “As sure as I can be.”
    “But why didn’t dad come back?”
    “Maybe he had no unfinished business.”
    “But if he loved me, bringing me up would have been his unfinished business?”
    “No Iona, I don’t think so.  Perhaps it was because he loved you so much and so well that he could move on.”
    Iona stood up and walked to the window.  It was almost dark.  As she looked out she thought she saw a black-clad figure slip back into the shadows.
    She clicked her tongue and stared out into the night.
     
    *   *   *
     
    “So who were you?”asked Iona.
    “Who am I?”corrected