Sanctuary
It was the same old story, one portrayed countless times in action movies and television crime dramas: a drug deal gone wrong resulting in a shootout. It ought to have been a simple transaction. The buyer hands over the money, and the seller delivers the goods. In this case, though, the goods were fake, and the seller believed he could abscond with the money. However, not only was the buyer much smarter than he looked, but he was also mean-tempered and vindictive. When he realized he was being duped, he shot the dealer in the head and took his cash back. Two dead policemen and an innocent bystander later, carrot-topped William "Red" Dawes was on the run. Given his past record, if he were to stand trial for the four murders, he would most likely be sent away for life.
Since one of the cops he killed had managed to give information on his car to the police dispatcher before being shot, Red knew he would have to get away on foot. Thankfully, it was a dark, moonless night, and the city, though nowhere near the size of London, was nevertheless a warren of narrow roads and dark alleys.
If I can hide out in an abandoned building until morning, the desperate man thought, I ought to be able to blend in with the rush of early commuters at the train station. Once there, I'll have no difficulty getting away.
The sound of police sirens blared in the night as he surreptitiously made his way along Mile End Road toward the waterfront where a number of dilapidated warehouses stood. When he spotted a police car turning the corner and heading in his direction, Red felt trapped. His initial reaction was to reach for his gun, but with only two bullets left, he had little chance of coming out the victor in a confrontation. In this flight or fight situation, he had no choice but to flee.
In the darkness that surrounded him, he saw a brief flicker of light across the street, caused by the beam from a communications tower being reflected off a piece of metal. With the police closing in, he raced up a dozen or so steps and found himself standing in front of a large wooden door with an old-fashioned knocker in the shape of an animal head. He tried to open the door, but it would not budge. Keeping his gun in his right hand, he lifted the knocker with his left. Moments later, the heavy oak door creaked open. Red quickly rushed inside and shut the door behind him. Only when he heard the sound of the police car fading as it continued down Mile End Road, did he question where he was.
An elderly man with a tonsured head and wearing a dark, floor-length religious habit was looking at him with neither fear nor surprise.
"Where am I? And who the hell are you?" the redheaded killer asked, pointing his gun at the old man.
"I'm Brother Bartholomew, and this is Worley Cathedral."
"No kidding!" he laughed. "I haven't been inside a church since I was christened as a baby."
When Brother Bartholomew took his first step toward the shadowy interior of the cathedral, Red brought the gun even closer to the monk's head.
"Don't even think about telling anyone I'm here."
"You've no need for that weapon. You're safe here. As I said, this is Worley Cathedral. You asked for sanctuary and ...."
"I didn't ask for nothing!"
"The knocker on the door," the monk explained. "It's the sanctuary knocker. Someone only uses it when requesting refuge."
Red vaguely remembered stories about people being given asylum inside churches, but he assumed the medieval custom of sanctuary had died out long ago. Apparently, there were still Anglican churches that clung to the old ways.
"Come with me," Brother Bartholomew said.
"Where are we going?" the suspicious killer asked, tightening his grip on his gun.
"I'll take you to a room where you'll have privacy. You can't very well stay out here in the open where anyone can see you."
Red saw the logic of the monk's words, but he still kept his weapon ready.
The holy man took him to a circular staircase. Up and up, round and round they went. With no landings, there was no indication of how many floors they climbed. Finally, they reached the top.
"Here we are," the monk announced.
It was a small room with nothing but a bed, a storage chest, a table and a chair.
"It looks like a prison cell."
Ignoring Red's comment, Brother Bartholomew opened the chest and took out a habit similar to the one he wore himself.
"Put this on," he instructed. "If someone should see you, they'll think you're one of us."
"A disguise, huh? I'll wear the outfit, but there's no way you're going to shave my head. I'm not about to run around with a chrome dome!"
"Your hair is fine the way it is. Should you need to conceal yourself, you can always pull the hood up."
"All right. Leave the robe on the bed," Red replied, not wanting to put down his weapon while the monk was within striking distance.
"While you get dressed, I'll go down and get you something to eat."
The killer's muscles tensed. Could he trust the monk to keep his mouth shut? Once Brother Bartholomew was out of his sight, he might phone the police.
"Don't get any funny ideas," he warned, deciding to accept the sanctuary that was being offered. "I still have my gun, and if you try to turn me in, you'll be shaking hands with God sooner than you thought."
"You won't need that gun here. However, if it makes you feel better to wave it around, then by all means, you're free to do so."
* * *
I feel like a damned fool in this getup, Red thought, when he put on the coarse brown habit and tied the belt around his waist.
As he paced the cramped room, waiting for the monk to return, he glanced at his watch.
That can't be the right time!
It wasn't. His watch had stopped, apparently not long after he fled the scene of the shootings.
What seemed like hours but what was actually less than forty minutes, Brother Bartholomew returned with hot vegetable soup, a loaf of fresh bread and an earthen jug filled with water.
"Once you've eaten, we'll go over the rules," the monk announced as he placed the tray of food on the table.
"Rules? What rules?"
The gun came out again.
"The rules of sanctuary."
"I thought I was being given asylum here."
"You are, but sanctuary is a long-established practice of the church. It has rules."
"What are they?"
"You can stay here for thirty-seven days during which time you must contemplate your crimes and then choose between surrendering to the authorities and going into exile."
"I don't need thirty-seven days to think about it. There's no way I'm going to surrender."
"Should you choose exile, you will have to take an oath of abjuration ...."
"A what?"
"An oath of abjuration. You must renounce all rights and privileges of being an Englishman."
"Is that all?"
"You will then be escorted to the nearest port and put on a boat," the monk calmly continued, as though he were teaching a Sunday school class.
"To where?"
"To wherever the next boat is headed."
"And that's it? There are no other rules?"
"None—other than you must stay here in this room for the next thirty-seven days."
"Didn't you hear me? I said I've already made up my mind."
"In the next thirty-seven days you might change it."
* * *
For the first few hours of his stay in sanctuary, Red Dawes sat in the chair, his senses on red alert for any sign of approaching danger. He listened intently when the monks of Worley Cathedral gathered for morning prayer, their deep voices chanting Latin verses. Afterward, they dispersed and went about their daily business.
There were no windows in the room. The only light came from half a dozen candles burning in the wall sconces. Apparently, sanctuary had never been wired for electricity. There was, however, a small opening in the wall—a rectangular-shaped peephole—placed at eye level of an average-sized man. When he peered through it, all Red could see was the rose window: a magnificent, circular stained-glass window often found in Gothic-style churches. Roughly nine meters in diameter, it reminded him of a giant mandala, a geometric design often used for meditation or prayer in several Eastern religions.
As the day wore on, the sanctuary-seeker, bored with his Spartan surroundings, alternately sat in the chair, paced back and forth along the length of the narrow room and stared out the opening at the rose window.
What I wouldn't give to have Netflix or Sky Atlantic up here, he thought.
When Brother Bartholomew returned in the evening, he brought with him a tray of food. The meal consisted of a thick slice of cold meat, a wedge of cheese, a piece of fruit and a goblet of ale.
"I don't suppose you have any fish and chips on the menu? Pizza? Kentucky Fried Chicken?"
The monk, who was putting fresh candles in the sconces, seemed not to hear him.
"Why don't you sit down awhile and talk to me?" Red asked, desperate for some form of distraction.
"What do you want to talk about?" the monk replied, although he remained standing.
"I don't know. Tell me about this place. What is it called? Morely Cathedral?"
"It's Worley Cathedral. It was built by the Normans in the twelfth century."
"The place is that old, huh? And it's still standing?"
"Yes, despite Henry VIII's efforts."
Never one to waste time studying history, Red knew next-to-nothing about one of England's most notorious kings. Like most people, he knew the rotund monarch had six wives and sent two of them to the executioner's block, but he was not familiar with Henry's dissolution of the monasteries and his seizure of lands belonging to the Catholic Church.
"How long have you been here?"
"As long as I can remember."
There was a faraway look in Brother Bartholomew's eyes, as though he were gazing into his past.
"And how many other ...?"
"I'm sorry. I've got to go. It will soon be time for vespers."
"Maybe tomorrow," Red called to the retreating monk whose slight, stooped frame soon disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.
* * *
One day passed. Then two. Then three. The killer's senses went from red alert, to orange, to yellow and were now hovering between blue and green. No one except Brother Bartholomew ever mounted that circular staircase, and even his visits were few and far between: once in the morning and once in the evening, bringing meals, changing candles and emptying Red's chamber pot—for not only did sanctuary have no electricity, it had no plumbing either.
By the fourth day, the redheaded refugee was in need of both a bath and a shave.
"Can't I sneak down at night and take a bath or a shower?" he asked Brother Bartholomew.
"I'm afraid not."
"But don't the other monks know about sanctuary?"
"Of course, they do. They follow the rules as do I, and as you must. And one of the rules is that you are to remain up here, shut off from the rest of our religious community."
"But I'm beginning to stink! I need to bathe."
"I can bring up a basin of water and some soap."
"While you're at it, can you find me something to read? I'm going stir crazy with nothing to do but walk in circles and stare at that damned round window."
"I'll see what I can do," the monk said and, after changing the candles, left Red to pass the time in solitude.
Hours later, along with another bland evening meal, Brother Bartholomew brought up a small basin of water and bar of homemade soap.
"There are clean robes in the chest," the monk announced. "You can leave the dirty one on the floor. I'll collect it tomorrow morning and have it laundered."
"What about something to read?" Red asked eagerly, although he had never been a fan of the printed word in the past.
"This is all I could find," Brother Bartholomew said, reaching into the folds of his habit and taking out a small, leather-bound book.
"The Bible. I guess it was either that or a hymnal. Well, at least it's something."
After the monk left, Red placed the chair beneath one of the wall sconces and opened the leather cover. There was no humor in his laughter when his eyes viewed the title page, only bitterness.
"It figures!" he cried with frustration. "The damned thing is written in Latin!"
* * *
Somehow the sanctuary-seeker made it through days five, six and seven. During those seventy-two hours, Red carefully tore pages from the Bible and folded them into shapes. The results were nothing like more intricate Origami figures. They were mainly simple paper airplanes and various types of triangles.
It's nice to see the Good Book is good for something, he thought irreverently.
It was another week before he tore the last of the pages from its leather binding. Tallying the notches, he made in the table, he saw that it had been fourteen days since he unknowingly knocked on Worley Cathedral's sanctuary knocker, fourteen days of what he saw as a thirty-seven-day sentence. That meant he had twenty-three days left before Brother Bartholomew would let him out.
I don't think I can take another twenty-three days.
His sense of smell had finally grown immune to the foul stench of his chamber pot and to the odor of his armpits sans deodorant. Although he bathed every evening with the soap and water the monk brought to him, the temperature of the unventilated attic room sometimes topped thirty degrees, causing him to perspire. Before his confinement in Worley Cathedral, he had always taken great care with his appearance. He was, after all, an attractive young man, a popular one with the ladies. Now, given his hirsute face, unkempt mass of red hair and poor hygiene, he doubted any woman would give him the time of day.
All that will change when I get out of here, he promised himself. A haircut, a shave and a long, hot bath and I'll be as good as new. Hell, I may even get a manicure and a facial while I'm at it.
What bothered Red most about his stay in sanctuary was the boredom and forced inactivity. Used to enjoying the nightlife of London, he could not handle the silence and isolation of the attic room. And with nothing left of his Bible, he had one less form of distraction.
When Brother Bartholomew returned that evening, Red was waiting for him.
"I've had enough," he cried. "I want out—now! Take me to Liverpool and put me on a boat. I don't care if it's bound for Timbuktu."
"Your thirty-seven days are not up yet."
"I don't give a damn! I'm leaving."
The monk placed the tray of food on the table and proceeded to change the candles in the sconces, making no attempt to prevent the killer from escaping. With no one to stop him, Red headed toward the circular staircase.
It's pitch black, he thought with dismay.
There was no railing, so he clung to the wall adjacent to the wider portion of the wedge-shaped stairs. He carefully lowered his foot, feeling for the next step. As though the descent were not hazardous enough, the risers were not of equal height and the treads were uneven. How did a man of Brother Bartholomew's years take this staircase with a tray of food twice a day?
Red had gone down a dozen or so stairs when he felt something whoosh past him. It felt more like a strong gush of air than a solid figure, but he knew it was the monk passing him, moving swiftly on the narrow end of the stair tread.
The old man must have night vision. He didn't have a torch to light his way.
Even more surprising, the monk did not try to stop Red or send him back to the attic room.
All this time I could have just walked out the door!
He lowered his foot again, his toes pointed down, feeling for the next step. All of a sudden, he felt his body pitch forward. With no railing to prevent a fall, his body plunged into the darkness.
* * *
When Red regained consciousness, he found himself back in the attic room. The monks must have dragged him back up the stairs and put him on the bed. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his head was too great. Raising his hand to his forehead, he discovered a large bump. Within the hour, Brother Bartholomew appeared in the doorway with a cold, damp rag and placed it on his head.
"I don't suppose you called an ambulance?" the injured man asked.
"There was no need to. Brother Abel examined you. You suffered nothing but a few bumps and bruises."
"How do you know I have no broken bones or internal injuries? Was an x-ray taken?"
"One doesn't question Brother Abel. He knows."
It was another three days—three more notches in the table—before Red stopped feeling as though his body had been run over by a Crusader tank. He returned to his old habit of pacing the floor and staring at the rose window through the opening in the wall.
While his eyes were tracing the intricate, kaleidoscopic design of the "petals," he heard the monks' chanting from the quire below. It occurred to him that if he ceased to be an obedient prisoner and disrupted their daily routine, they might allow him to leave.
To hell with the rules of sanctuary!
With the intention of interrupting the monks' morning prayers, he leaned forward, put his mouth to the opening in the wall and started to sing.
"We will ... we will ... rock you!"
He stopped and listened. The chanting continued unabated. Red was not to be easily deterred. He repeated the Brian May lyrics several times, singing in a progressively louder voice each time. Finally, he was screaming out the old Queen song with such force that the muscles in his throat began to hurt.
"WE WILL ... WE WILL ... ROCK YOU!"
Still, the chanting below continued. In despair, Red closed his eyes, slowly slid his back down the wall and sat in a heap on the floor.
"Are they all deaf?" he cried.
He opened his eyes and saw the candles flickering in the sconces.
They may be deaf, but I'm dumb and blind! he thought, a new hope lightening his mood. I can use one of the candles to light my way down the stairs.
When Brother Bartholomew brought up his evening meal, along with his soap and wash basin, Red kept up the appearance of a forlorn man, counting down the days of his forced confinement. He did not want to give the old man any reason to suspect that he was planning another escape attempt.
"I assume when you let me out of here in another twenty days, you'll give me back my clothes."
"According to the rules of sanctuary," the monk answered, "you will be dressed in a white habit with St. Cuthbert's cross stitched on the shoulder. That way, you won't be able to vanish into the crowd should you try to flee."
"Pretty smart. I wouldn't get far wearing a bed sheet."
With some difficulty, Red suppressed a smile as he watched Brother Bartholomew replace the old stubs with new candles. For several hours after the monk descended the stairs, he paced the floor. Although patience had never been one of his virtues—in fact, he had few of those—he waited, and waited, and waited some more. Finally, he could wait no longer. Hoping all the monks were asleep, he removed one of the candles from its sconce and headed toward the stairs. Even by candlelight, the descent was not an easy one.
Take it slowly. Don't rush, he cautioned himself. You don't want to fall again.
There was no door at the bottom of the stairs, and there were no signs—illuminated or otherwise—pointing visitors to the nearest exit. Fighting the urge to bolt for freedom, he tiptoed through the cathedral, looking into several chapels for the way out. He preferred to leave by the more secluded sanctuary door—wherever that might be—believing he was more likely to be apprehended by the police if he walked through the narthex and out the main doors.
What was that? he wondered when a strange noise caused his sense of hearing to issue a red alert.
His body frozen in place, he listened. When the low rumble grew louder, he recognized it as the monks' chanting. Had he waited too long to leave? Was it morning already? Thinking only of escape, he threw caution to the wind and began running down the shadowy nave. Such was the poor lighting in the old Norman church that he could not see the ribbed vaulted ceiling above him or the pillars on either side of him. It did not matter much, since Red was not there to admire the architecture.
When he heard the chanting growing louder, he realized he was running toward the high altar. He stopped and turned. As though thousands of candles were suddenly lit, the church became aglow in light. At that same moment, the chanting came to an abrupt end. There were no monks at the altar or in the quire. Only one other person besides Red was in the church. Brother Bartholomew sat on the Cathedra, the bishop's throne, as though he were sitting in judgment of a prisoner.
"You can't escape sanctuary," the robed monk declared sternly.
"Oh, no?" the desperate killer countered, his eyes quickly searching the apse for an exit.
"There's no way out."
The chanting resumed, and Red saw a large group of monks at the western end of the nave, blocking the narthex and cutting off his escape route. His head turned right toward the south transept where the lady chapel was located.
"You can't get out that way either."
Was Brother Bartholomew taunting him?
Since the north transept was his last hope, he turned to the left and saw the enormous rose window high above him, the same one he had seen so often from the small opening in the wall.
That's got to be it! he thought, taking hope from the familiar sight. That must be the way out.
Red made a mad dash toward the door through which sanctuary-seekers had entered the cathedral since the twelfth century. It was also the one through which they left. With the exit less than a foot away, he could hear the sounds of traffic out on Mile End Road. What a blessed sound it was! His fingers grasped the door handle and tugged. To his amazement, it was not locked. Elated, he pulled the heavy wooden door open and felt the cool night air blow on his face.
"Freedom!" he exclaimed.
When he raised his foot to cross the threshold, there was a shrill sound from high above him. The rose window shattered, and thousands of shards of colored glass and strips of lead rained down on him.
* * *
Constable Cyril Gadsden contacted Detective Chief Inspector Mervyn Peebles from his mobile phone.
"Gadsden here, sir," he announced when his superior officer answered the call. "I've got some good news for you. I just found our Mr. Dawes."
There was no need to state the felon's full name. For nearly three weeks, authorities throughout Britain had been searching for the man who took the life of two fellow officers.
"Have you apprehended him yet?"
"No need to, sir. He's dead."
"Where's his body?"
"Worley Cathedral out on Mile End Road."
"Are you pulling my leg, Cyril?" DCI Peebles asked. "Worley Cathedral was destroyed during the Blitz. For close to eighty years, there's been nothing there but rubble."
"I'm aware of that, sir. While I was making my rounds, I saw a foot sticking out of a pile of stone and broken glass. Frankly, I don't know how he got there. It took four men to dig that redheaded devil out."
"How he got there isn't important, Constable. The main thing is we got him."
"Yes, sir. I thought you'd want to know. That's why I called you straight away."
"Thanks, Cyril. I won't forget that."
As Constable Gadsden tucked his mobile phone back into his pocket, his eyes momentarily fell on an old-fashioned knocker in the shape of an animal head.
"No," he said to himself as he turned to watch the body being loaded into the back of the medical examiner's van, "I can't, for the life of me, imagine how he got under all that rubble!"
I got the idea for this story when reading an article about Durham Cathedral. I especially found the concept of a sanctuary knocker fascinating.
Picture in upper left corner is of Durham Cathedral's sanctuary knocker.
"We Will Rock You" written by Brian May. Performed by Queen. Released October 1977.
This is the funniest knock-knock joke I've ever seen.
