Father Michael was up early, unable to sleep. The funeral had unsettled him, Janelle appearing in his dreams as though trying to warn him . . . of what? He wondered why Jane hadn’t been there, and why the funeral had been announced on all major news programmes. None of it made sense, especially Jane’s absence. He brought his coffee to the fire and raked the hot coals with a poker donated by one of his older parishioners. He poked without thinking, enjoying the sound, the scraping of metal on hot coal, the deep orange red of the fire. Dawn was his favourite time of day, pre-dawn less so. It did though give him the time and peace to pray if only his mind let him. Thoughts of Janelle kept intruding. He'd baptised her, saw her grow, a happy child, mischievous, all now memories and dust. She’d be with God, that was for sure, but where did that leave Jane, poor woman? She had faith, but that wasn’t enough, not for a mother. He rose and knelt before the large brass crucifix on the wall and bowed his head, his prayer interrupted by a soft but persistent knock on the door. Someone else unable to sleep. I’m sorry, Lord. He crossed himself and stood with a groan. Two years at best before his knees took early retirement. And then what? New knees. New pain. Father Michael winced.
The knocking became louder. They’d be waking the neighbours and those on the other side of the street. He looked around quickly, taking in a glance the faded blue carpet, walls lined with books, the long deep mirror you wanted to dive into, the fire giving all of it a warm and friendly glow. All reasonably tidy, good enough to receive any who came calling this time of day. He brushed dust off one of the chairs as he passed and immediately regretted the action, the clean patch highlighting what remained untouched.
“Coming,” he said absently and largely to himself, as he unbolted the door. He opened it and stared into an empty street. For a moment it didn’t register: the nothingness; but somebody had been knocking even as he’d drawn back the final bolt. He shivered. And yet there was something. Invisible but palpable. A cold wind pushed him back and he heard a voice, a voice from the room he’d just left.
“Father Michael?”
He sensed evil and crossed himself and walked slowly back to his room. He should have run, but he’d left it too late. He opened the door to his study and tensed and, for a moment, relaxed.
A lean man stood with his back to the fire. Father Michael studied him, fear slowly ebbing. Early middle age, boyish smile, eyes blue and good humoured, hair the colour of tarnished gold, short a little tousled. He dressed like an officer, in tweeds, blue jumper and checked shirt. SAS, he wondered, military certainly.
“Father Michael.” Not a question.
“Yes. Who are you? More to the point, how did you get in?”
The smile more disarming. “Arthur Rose. I’m afraid you have something I want.”
“A burglar then.” Father Michael lowered his voice, one he used in Confession, persuasive, confiding. “I have little of value here. Take what you need.” He felt a presence behind him and turned, fear swelling up again. The new intruder looked respectable enough, dressed like an undertaker in a dark, well-cut suit, his eyes small and black embedded in flesh.
“We want the mirror,” the intruder said, “that one over there.”
“Succinctly put Mr Wenwood.”
Father Michael glanced at the mirror, at the man called Wenwood and then at Arthur Rose, who looked almost apologetic. “Is that all you want? Then take it.” And may God go with you, not meant, or said aloud. “Take anything you want.” He stood to one side. The intruder stepped with him as though bound like a shadow.
“It’s not as simple as that,” Arthur Rose said. “We need to kill you, too.”
Father Michael stiffened.
“You’ve seen us—you see the problem.” The man spoke reasonably with a hint of regret, as though soliciting agreement, willing Father Michael to acquiesce. Two vice-like hands gripped the priest’s shoulder and panic took over.
There was no escape.
There had to be.
He kicked back at the man holding him and froze, suddenly unable to move. The force holding him tightened its grip, until Father Michael found it difficult and then impossible to breathe. His head throbbed and then pounded, his eyes bulged, and the room became red. An invisible hand pulled his head back, farther and farther. He glimpsed a knife gleaming in darkness and fire, felt his backbone about to snap. Pain shrieked through him as the knife swept down and stopped at his throat.
“No,” Arthur Rose said. “We can do better than that.” A director exhorting a better performance.
The pressure eased, but Father Michael remained unable to move. Sweat dripped from his brow.
“You mean something like this?” Wenwood stepped in front of the priest and slapped him hard on the cheek, and then continued slapping from side to side. Moments before Father Michael all but lost consciousness, the slapping stopped. He saw the knife again, then felt a sudden fierce burning at the side of his head. Father Michael clawed at blood and tattered flesh, the space where his ear had been. His knees buckled and he folded in snot and tears on to the floor.
“Give him time to recover.” The voice a soft, amused drawl. “We have time.”
Father Michael’s head swam. He was in the presence of demons. He’d never experienced evil so raw or intense.
Then the punching began turning flesh into jelly and bones a raw mass of pain.
Father Michael was on his knees, swaying, the world a blurred, narrow slit seen through blood-soaked eyes. He glimpsed dark trousers immaculately creased, and Wenwood squatted down in front of him, brought his face close and spat. He exuded tobacco and sweat, stale meat and fried onions.
As though from miles away, he heard the scraping of metal on hot coal; he heard Arthur Rose chuckle, then silence.
“Stand up.”
Father Michael obeyed, creature to another’s will. He staggered to the table, his arms close together and stretched as though bound. He walked as a puppet might, unable to stand by himself. At the table his head and chest folded, slamming into the wood.
“Raise his head.”
Wenwood obeyed. His hand went under Father Michael’s chin, forcing his head back again. Through slitted eyes, he saw Arthur Rose advancing, holding a glowing poker like a sword. A moment of eye-searing heat, eyelids crinkling, then blackness and pain, more pain as Wenwood drove the burning poker in deeper and deeper. Father Michael screamed but heard no sound. Nothing came from his mouth. Piss and shit drenched his trousers and legs. He should have fainted by now, but another controlled his mind, and he couldn’t.
“The other.” Arthur Rose’s voice a creamy purr. Burning air and then flesh, as Wenwood drove in the poker a second time. Father Michael convulsed as the restraints binding him relaxed, and he fell to the floor, a twitching lump of flesh and blood.
No comments:
Post a Comment