Shadow of the Serpent

below.

Father Callan tried to still the trembling in his voice. He felt as if surrounded by a miasma, an unholy exhalation which seeped into his very pores. To breathe was to be infected.

‘What is it you have done?’ he managed to whisper.

‘I cleansed her,’ came the chilling response. ‘And I rescued her. Out of the stinking womb.’

‘How? How did you do this?’ the priest asked.

For the very first time, the man fell silent. Father Callan could finally bear it no longer.

‘If you do not say, I cannot help you. What have you done?’

A howl of pain, as if from a wounded tortured soul, and then there was a gleam as a sharp steel blade swung up against the grille, denting the metal.

The blade stuck for a moment and the horrified priest could see the smears of blood on the edge.

The blade whipped out of sight and a pair of eyes glared into his, burning with hate.

Then the man was gone. Footsteps. Crash of the outside door. Silence, once more.

If it had not been for the patch of blood where the man had leant against the partition wall, blood that the priest had carefully cleansed away from it and the lattice-work of the grille that very night, Father Callan might have wondered if he had not suffered a demonic visitation, a rupture in the fabric of reality.

But all that was dispelled when he heard the terrible tidings next morning. And then, some days later, looked into the eyes of Constable James McLevy and denied all knowledge of murder, the faint smell of paint and linseed oil mixing with the incense inside the bright new building.

He had no option. He did not know whether the man was Catholic or no, or what perverse demons had driven him into the chapel, but the sanctity of confession must be protected no matter how crude and incomplete the process.

He would carry the burden for the rest of his life. It was a matter of faith.

Father Callan shivered as he came out of these thoughts. For a second he thought someone was behind him and startled, but it was his own shadow on the chapel wall.

All these years ago, he had made his own confession to his bishop and been told to dismiss the matter from his mind. The Catholic Church did not welcome such scandal.

That should have been the end of the matter but now he felt strangely unshriven, as if a feeling of guilt he had carried all these years had been stirred into a raw hunger to confess his suspicions. But that would be wrong. Against his creed.

And if he did, what could he tell? A memory, shifting like sand, compromised by time. Nothing more. What use would that be to McLevy and his like?

Father Callan found himself looking up at the last and fourteenth station.

Jesus is laid in the tomb.

38

For those who have been defeated, good

becomes bad, and bad becomes even worse.

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES, Don Quixote

When McLevy opened his eyes it was to discover himself tied up, as Aunt Katie would have put it, like a turkey on the Christmas table.

His hands had been pinioned behind and his feet, which stuck straight out in front due to the fact that he had been propped up against one of the stones, were also bound together with a thick strong cord.

‘I do apologise,’ said a voice. ‘I shall unloose you in due time but I am afraid you will gain little benefit from the action because of a certain insensibility. Namely, that of death. This, from your point of view, is undoubtedly unfortunate but needs must when the devil drives, eh?’

A dry chuckle and then his own revolver was levelled at the inspector’s head. It appeared to be aiming straight between the eyes, the muzzle steady as a rock.

A finger tightened on the trigger which drew back under the pressure. McLevy’s magnified focus was centred on this sight. He watched the hammer pull away from the striking pad, then farther back and farther to the limit when it would snap forward like a deadly snake.

For some reason, Jean Brash came into his mind, roses in bloom, high summer, red hair, green eyes, lips smiling as she reached towards him with the sacred pot.

‘I don’t suppose,’ he croaked, ‘you have such a thing as a cup of coffee on your person? I would like to satisfy my thirst before you shoot me with my own gun.’

A sardonic laugh came in response and the revolver was lowered to the side.

For the first time, McLevy was able to take stock of the man in front of him.

Dressed for the evening, a black silk scarf wrapped around his neck, part covering the bow tie and white shirt.

Both men were revealed by the glimmering candlelight though that was as far as equality went. The inspector was cramped like a rag doll on the flagstones, while the man sat on the top of the tomb opposite, one leg swinging in a carefree gentle arc.

A definite elegance, tall, slim, stage-door Johnnie silver hair, strands of which fell negligently over the one eyebrow and occasioned a flick of the head to keep all in place. Face smooth, features small, not for a moment memorable, like that of a baby, unformed almost, until you got to the eyes. Everything stopped when you got to the eyes. Ice-blue. Cold. A killer’s eyes.

The man had suffered McLevy’s scrutiny patiently enough then, on bringing out a pocket-watch to check the time and nodding acceptance of a reasonably tight schedule, spoke in a brisk fashion with traces of an upper-class drawl.

Though that might well be a disguise, like everything else about him.

‘I’m afraid, old chap, there is no coffee to hand and your demise will not involve anything so neat as a bullet hole.’

He relaxed his finger from the trigger, laid the revolver down on the surface beside him and delved into the recess of his jacket.

‘This is the fellow for the job. A bit messy. I do hope you don’t spout. One can never tell with people.’

He produced a small axe, the like of which McLevy had seen Gladstone use on the tree. The edge of the blade shone murderously keen in the light.

‘I sharpened the little beauty this very morning, with my own fair hands. You’ve a bit of heft to you but it should cut through the blubber.’

McLevy was perfectly still. It was his habit in extremity of danger. You may have only one move to make.

The man raised an eyebrow at the lack of response, perhaps even a little nettled by it.

‘I shall render you unconscious first, of course. It’s the decent thing.’

‘Like ye did Frank Brennan?’

A moment. Then, a charming smile. All of McLevy’s senses were fixed on that smiling face. Perhaps the man wanted to toy with him, as a cat will a mouse. That was fine by the inspector, he would encourage such a cruel