Strange days; strange nights. Was this insanity, she began to wonder?
On the second Sunday-eleven days into the crisis-Marty was summoned to the library. Whitehead was there, looking somewhat tired perhaps, but not substantially cowed by the enormous pressure he was under. He was dressed for the outdoors; the fur-collared coat he’d worn the first day, on that symbolic visit to the kennels.
“I haven’t left the house in several days, Marty,” he announced, “and my head’s getting stale. I think we should take a walk, you and I.”
“I’ll fetch a jacket.”
“Yes. And the gun.”
They headed out the back way, avoiding the newly arrived delegations who still thronged the stairs and hallway, waiting for access to the holy of holies.
It was a balmy day; the nineteenth of April. The shadows of light-headed clouds passed across the lawn in dissolute troupes. “We’ll go to the woods,” the, old man said, leading off. Marty walked a respectful couple of yards behind, acutely aware that Whitehead had come out here to clear his mind, not to talk.
The woods were buzzing with activity. New growth poking through the rot of last year’s fall; daredevil birds plummeting and rising between the trees, courtship voices on every other branch. They walked for several minutes, following no particular path, without Whitehead so much as looking up from his boots. Out of sight of the house and his disciples, he wore. the burden of siege more nakedly. Head bowed, he trudged between the trees, indifferent to birdsong and leaf-burst alike.
Marty was enjoying himself. Whenever he’d crossed this territory before it had been at a run. Now his pace was forcibly slowed, and details of the woods became apparent. The confusion of flowers underfoot, the fungi sprouting in the damp places between the roots: all delighted him. He picked up a selection of pebbles as he went. One bore the fossilized imprint of a fern. He thought of Carys and of the dovecote, and an unexpected longing for her lapped at the edges of his consciousness. Having no reason to prevent its access, he let it come.
Once admitted, the weight of his feeling for her shocked him. He felt conspired against; as though in the last few days his emotions had worked in some secret place in him, transforming mild interest in Carys into something deeper. He had little chance to sort the phenomena out, however. When he glanced up from the stone fern Whitehead had got a good way ahead of him. Putting thoughts of Carys aside, he picked up his pace. Passages of sun and shadow moved through the trees as the light clouds that had sat on the wind earlier gave way to heavier formations. The wind had begun to chill; there was an occasional speckle of rain in it.
Whitehead had pulled his collar up. His hands were plunged into his pockets. When Marty reached him, he was greeted with a question.
“Do you believe in God, Martin?”
The inquiry came out of nowhere. Unprepared for it, Marty could only answer, “I don’t know,” which was, as answers to that question went, honest enough.
But Whitehead wanted more. His eyes glittered.
“I don’t pray, if that’s what you mean,” Marty offered.
“Not even before your trial? A quick word with the Almighty?”
There was no humor, malicious or otherwise, in this interrogation. Again, Marty answered as honestly as he could.
“I don’t remember, exactly . . . I suppose I must have said something, then, yes.” He paused Above them, the clouds passed over the sun. “Much good it did me.”
“And, in prison?”
“No; I never prayed.” He was sure of that. “Never once.”
“But there were God-fearing men in Wandsworth, surely?”
Marty remembered Heseltine, with whom he’d shared a cell for a few weeks at the beginning of his stretch. An old hand at prison, Tiny had spent more years behind bars than out. Every night he’d murmur a bastardized version of the Lord’s Prayer into his pillow before he went to sleep-“Our Father, who are in Heaven, hello be thy name”-not understanding the words or their significance, simply saying the prayer by rote, as he had every night of his life, most probably, until the sense was corrupted beyond salvation- “thine by the King Dome, thine by the Glory, fever and fever, Amen.”