At precisely one a.m., Halloran made his way up to the second floor and knocked on the door of Monk's room. The silence around him was occasionally disturbed by the creaking of aged timbers as they settled after the day's heat. Corridors were poorly lit as though power was low. He waited and heard movement from inside the room, heavy but dulled footsteps no shoes on those lumbering feet—approaching. The door opened only a few inches and a section of the bodyguard's face peered out, his eyelids drooping as if sleep was reluctant to lose its claim. The sour odour of sweat drifted out and it was as unpleasant as Monk's stare.
'Your watch,' Halloran informed him.
'Uh?' came the reply.
'Time to earn your keep. Check exterior doors and all windows first, then settle down in the main hallway. Take a walk round every half-hour, more often if you get bored.' The door opened wider and he saw that Monk was dressed in vest and loosened trousers, his belly pushing outwards so that the hem of his vest was stretched to its limit, the flesh between it and open belt buckle matted almost black. The hair on his head was no longer tied back, hanging loose around his broad flat face, strands curling inwards to touch his stubbled chin, while the hair on his arms, thick and dark, reached up to his sloping shoulders and splayed there like pubics.
The day of the Neanderthal wasn't quite over, mused Halloran.
Monk moodily turned away, revealing the shambles of his room in the wedge of light from the open door. Magazines and comic-books littered the floor, a tray filled with dirty plates and a beer can rested by the bed—a surprisingly small bed considering the man's bulk. Halloran had no desire to see further.
'Monk,' he said quietly, and the bodyguard looked back. He stood there as if rooted, his shoulders hunched so that his neck seemed sunken into his chest. He glowered at Halloran, who told him, 'Any disturbance at all you come straight to me. Is that understood?'
'You're shittin' me,' was the response.
Halloran shook his head. 'You come and get me. Not Kline. You warn me first.'
'That ain't the way.' over.'
'You find me first or I'll break your arms when the fuss is The bodyguard turned back all the way, squaring himself at Halloran. 'I'm paid to watch out for Mr Kline,' he said, his piping voice as low as he could register.
'I'm being paid more to do the same. You want to discuss it, take it up with Kline in the morning. Tonight you do as I say.' Monk might well have rushed him there and then and Halloran didn't think it was the memory of what had happened last time that prevented him from doing so: no, it had more to do with getting into trouble with his employer. Monk flicked his tongue across his lips, glistening them, his mind still not made up.
'I want you downstairs in two minutes,' Halloran told him curtly. Then he walked away, hearing something shatter in the room behind. Monk's bedroom must have been even more of a shambles with his dinner things scattered across the floor. Halloran smiled, knowing that a score would have to be settled when this affair was over; he, himself, was prepared to let it lie, but he knew the other man wouldn't share the same view. That was going to be Monk's misfortune.
He returned to his bedroom on the first floor, pausing to look out over the centre courtyard on the way.
The moon palely laminated the flagstones, the fountain throwing a misshapen shadow across the whiteness, an irregular stain on a pattern of rough squares. He searched to one side of the fountain, wondering about the sealed door he had found in the short corridor there. It had been Youssef Daoud who had disturbed him as he tried the door.
Halloran had asked where the door led to and why was it locked, but Daoud's comprehension of the English language (it was mentioned in their files that both Arabs spoke good English) had suddenly become very poor, and he could only grin at Halloran and shake his head. Halloran had gone back outside to the courtyard. Later Cora told him that the staircase the Arab had watched him from led to Kline's private quarters.
Darkness crept over the rooftops and down into the well below, thick clouds claiming the moon for their own, dim lights from windows around the house asserting little influence over the blackness. He moved away, going to his room and quietly closing the door behind him, relieved to shut the rest of Neath away for a short while. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Taking the Browning Hi-Power from its waist-holster, he placed it on the bedside table, then set his soft-alarm clock for ten minutes to four. With one last scan of the grounds outside the window—there wasn't much to see save for the black trumps of hills and an orange glow over a nearby town—he lay on the bed, undoing two more shirt buttons, but leaving his shoes an and laced. He put one pillow on top of its mate and rested back, his eyes closing immediately, the dim light from the bedside lamp no bother at all.
Sleep was not long in coming. And with its dream came a memory . . .
. . . He could hear the harsh breathing from behind the wood latticework, as though drawing in air was an uncomfortable process for the priest . . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . . Liam wondered why he did not feel the shame he was supposed to. He recounted his 'crimes' against the Holy Father in Heaven and smiled in the unlit confessional, feeling no resentment even in having to reveal secrets to a man whom he had no liking for, and worse, no respect for . . . I've lied, Father, I've stolen things . . . the bow of the priest's large head in the diamond holes of the struts, a nodded acceptance of the confessor's iniquity . . . I've abused my own body, Father—that's how the boys were taught to say it, 'abused'
instead of 'pleasured' . . . and I've called God dirty names . . . movement stopping in the adjoining cubicle, the priest's breath momentarily held. . . Liam's smile widening . . . I've asked God why's he's a wicked bastard, Father . . . the bulky head turning towards him, the priest's eyes, unseen but felt, burning through the latticework. He took him from mam an' me . . . the boy's smile hard, his eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing . . . Liam, gunmen took your father's life, not God . . . why He . . . why He made me Mam
. . . why He made her. . . the boy's eyes moistened, the smile still there . . . do things . . . mad things . . .
why she's to go away . . . Liam—the priest again, gentle now . . . why . . . the boy's first sob, the hunching of his shoulders, hands reaching up, fingers sinking through the black diamonds of the grille, curling round, clutching and pulling as if to wrench away a barrier against truth . . . the shadow beyond moving, light thrown to show emptiness there . . . the door beside Liam opening, Father O'Connell reaching in, touching the boy's shoulder . . . Liam pushing him away, shrinking down into the booth's corner, forcing his head hard against his raised knees, tears uncontrolled, thin body jerking with the outflow . . . the priest, a burly and dark silhouette, bending forward, arms outstretched . . .
. . . A tapping on the door.
Halloran's eyes opened immediately, consciousness returning almost as fast. The dream remained as an image, one that could be put aside for the moment. He was moving towards the door, gun tucked into holster, before the tapping resumed. He opened up, one foot rigid against the base of the door so that it couldn't be forced wider.
Outside stood Cora.
18 UNHOLY COMMUNION
There were candles all around him, tall thick-stemmed candles, candles that were black. They hardly lit the chamber, though his wretchedly thin naked body glistened highlights under their subdued glow; the two dark- skinned men had used oil on him, their excitement enhanced by the slippery smoothness of his skin.
And there were eyes watching him constantly. Large, unblinking eyes, grouped together at the far end of the room.
The youth moaned, twisted his head, movement weakened by the frequent injection of fluid into his veins. They kept him passive. But not all the time. Sometimes the Arabs liked to hear him screaming.
No sound could escape this room, they had said, grinning at him, holding each other's hand. This was a secret place, one of worship, where the walls were strengthened by the very earth itself. Scream, they had urged him. Shriek, for our delight, they had said as long needles pierced his flesh. Let us see you weep, they coaxed as sharp things were imbedded in his genitalia.
They had taken the hair from his (body, even gulled free the eyelashes, plucked his nostrils clear, so that he remained only gleaming colourless flesh, a languid, loose-muscled object one moment, a fitful shivering creature the
