4 X 4 (Conclusion)

   His translation to the new environment however was unsuccessful. No sooner had the policemen deposited him and hastily retreated than the man nosedived abruptly onto the pavement.  There was a look of maniacal glee on his face just before he found the concrete and Killin realised it was what he ardently wanted.

   In that moment he knew that his options were indeed more elastic than he had previously believed.  At that moment he randomly acted and walked out into the traffic without looking.  Barring the blaring of horns and some actual, perhaps not unwarranted swearing directed at him, he escaped remarkably unharmed.  And it was curious that his real fear began only when he had left the road and hit the pavement again.  The emotion was so profound that he closed his eyes and started walking blindly, randomly.  There were few people about thankfully. As a slight concession to sanity he opened his eyes every ten paces.  He only collided with lampposts five or six times.  But he could not keep still, as the fear was rising all around, and so he walked without knowing where he was going.

   The church should not have been open at this time, in the darkness, that surely meant it was late night, judging by the depth of the darkness. He did not know and couldn’t do other but push the door and enter the immersive gothic depth of the interior of St Mary’s Redcliffe. It swallowed him, or rather (and his eyes were full wide now to take it in, unafraid), it held him in its maw, in the nave, and tasted him, to find out what he was. Then, and still uncertain, it swilled him wildly around its great dim interior, so all the saints and eyes and ornamentation of the vestries and the grottoes could silently, sinisterly see what he was. 

    There was the image of a man, cold as stone, for stone he was.  He bent over the yellowed, stretched form and summoned the name of a story up from long ago:  ‘Man Sized in Marble.’ Killin leant over timidly to introduce himself.  A plaque gave the man’s name as William Canynges, rich merchant of this medieval parish.  There was an array of ancient graffiti spidered over the nicotine yellow surface, like a rude outbreak of broken, literary veins. The alabaster pores seemed to open up as he examined them more closely.  Some of the writing seemed to scurry away under the scrutiny of his sight. Then other things emerged.  Near the robed left shoulder, among the frozen folds of William’s cloak there was a newly formed message. 

   He read it as it seeped out of the stone and into his brain, never doubting that it was solely intended for him and no-one else:

The traveller who knows not when his chariot awaits will not reach his destination in peace.

  There was no alternative.  He stood back and allowed the side door in the nearest apse to thunder open.  The white vehicle was already backed up to the entrance and the dwarf was there, grinning. Someone else was there standing beside him , but Kirrin’s vision was too blurred to see clearly as he advanced.  It was easy to climb into the back and he made no murmur as the boot door closed behind him, then the echoing, oaken medieval doorway beyond, and the car glided off without delay.