Anselm could not take his eyes off the dull glint on the blade.
One edge flashed as the shadow holding it stepped forward on to the landing. Chambray threw a swift, raking stare over
Anselm’s habit.
‘What the hell do you want? I’m trying to eat. ‘
There was something in the brash confrontation that persuaded Anselm this was a performance, possibly concealing hidden warmth. More confident of his ground, Anselm ventured, ‘I wondered if we might have a brief talk-’
‘What about?’ Chambray fired back. He did not budge. There was no invitation to come in. His chest rose and fell angrily
Anselm faltered. He’d been very wrong. This was not the harmless banter of an old soul in need of a playful ribbing. He pressed on, ‘I understand you were once at Notre-Dame des-’
‘I’ve already told the other lot. I’m not saying anything, to no one.
Anselm seized on the distinction: ‘I’m not really from the other lot, he said alluringly
‘Then where are you from?’ challenged Chambray, waving the blade impatiently and still not moving.
‘My name is Father Anselm Duffy. I’m a Gilbertine monk, like you, from Larkwood Priory. It’s a rather…’
Before Anselm could trot out some guidebook particulars, Chambray lumbered back through the doorway and turned around. With one hand on the door he flung it shut with a single savage movement. The unseen cover scraped off the brass eyepiece. Slower breathing hovered on the other side, not receding, while the two monks looked towards each other. After a long moment, Anselm retraced his steps to the evening light.