she guessed, a function of mortality: even the worst among them, consciously or not, wanted their deeds to be remembered. Something of that need to record had infected her kind.
So Darina went to work, and the order was given to wipe their enemies from the face of the earth.
And while Darina conspired in his destruction, the Collector paid a visit to a church in Connecticut. The final service of the day had concluded, and the last of the congregation had trailed out into the evening. The Collector looked kindly upon them: they simply worshiped a different aspect of the same God.
When the last of them had gone, he watched as the priest said goodbye to the sacristan at the back of the church, and the two men separated. The sacristan drove away while the priest walked through the church grounds and used a key to unlock a gate in the wall: behind it was a garden, and his home.
The priest saw the Collector approach while the gate was still open.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
He had a faint Irish accent, altered by his years in the United States. A security light on the wall beside him illuminated his face. He was a middle-aged man with a full head of hair, but no sign of gray. Instead, the light caught unnatural tints.
‘Father,’ said the Collector. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wish to make a confession.’
The priest looked at his watch. ‘I was about to go to dinner. I take confession every morning after ten o’clock mass. If you were to come back then, I’d be happy to listen.’
‘It’s a matter of some urgency, Father,’ said the Collector. ‘I fear for a soul.’
The curious formulation of the statement passed the priest by.
‘Oh well, I suppose that you’d better come in,’ he said.
He held the gate open and the Collector entered the garden. It was carefully arranged as a series of concentric circles, shrubs and hedges alternating with cobbled paths, and winter flowering plants adding color to it all. Between a pair of elegant box trees stood a long stone bench. The priest sat at one end of it, and indicated that the Collector should sit at the other. The priest took a stole from his pocket, kissed the cross, and placed the vestment around his neck. He quickly whispered some prayers, his eyes closed, and then asked the Collector how long it had been since his last confession.
‘A very long time,’ replied the Collector.
‘Years?’
‘Decades.’
The priest did not look happy to hear that. Perhaps he thought that the Collector might feel compelled to unburden himself of a lifetime of sins, and he would be forced to sit on the cold bench and listen until breakfast. The priest made the decision to cut to the chase. The Collector suspected that this was not the orthodox approach, but he did not object.
‘Go on, my son,’ said the priest. ‘You said that you had a matter of some seriousness to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ said the Collector. ‘A killing.’
That made the priest’s eyes open wider. He started to look worried. He didn’t know the Collector from Adam, and now here they were in the garden of the priest’s own home, about to discuss the death of another human being.
‘You’re talking about – what? An accidental death, or something worse?’
‘Worse, Father. Much worse.’
‘A . . . murder?’
‘It might be viewed that way. I couldn’t really say. It’s a matter of perspective.’
The priest had moved from being worried to actively concerned for his own safety. He saw an out.
‘Maybe you should come back tomorrow after all, once you’ve had a chance to properly consider what it is that you wish to confess,’ he said.
The Collector looked puzzled.
‘Done?’ he said. ‘I haven’t “done” anything yet. I’m
The priest stood. ‘Either you’re making fun of me, or you’re a troubled man,’ he said. ‘Whatever is the case, I can’t help you. I want you to go now, and think hard about yourself.’
‘Sit down, priest,’ said the Collector.
‘If you don’t go, I’ll call the police.’
The priest didn’t even see the blade being drawn. One moment the Collector’s hands were empty, and the next there was a flash of light in his hands, and the Collector had risen, the knife pressed hard against the soft flesh of the priest’s throat. The priest heard the garden gate swing on its hinges. His eyes moved to the right, hoping to see someone enter, someone who might help him, but instead there were only deeper shadows moving. They took the form of men in hats and dark clothing, their long coats drifting behind them like smoke, but that wasn’t possible, was it? Then the shapes became clearer, and he could make out the pale features beneath the old fedoras, the eyes and mouths nothing more than dark holes, the skin around them wrinkled like old, rotting fruit.
‘Who are you?’ said the priest, as the shapes drew closer.
‘You betrayed her,’ said the Collector.
The priest was torn between listening to the Collector, and trying to believe what his eyes were seeing.
‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Barbara Kelly. They put you here to keep watch over her. You befriended her, and as she began to have doubts she shared with you what she planned to do.’
Becky Phipps had told him as much. The Collector liked to think that he had encouraged her to make a full and frank confession.
‘No, you don’t understand—’
‘Oh, but I do,’ said the Collector. ‘I understand perfectly. And you did it for money: you didn’t even have an interesting motive. You just wanted a nicer car, better vacations, more cash in your wallet. What a dull way in which to damn yourself.’
The priest was barely listening. He was terrified by the figures that surrounded him, drifting along the paths of his garden, circling him but drawing no closer.
‘What are those . . .
‘They were once men like you. Now they are hollow. Their souls are lost, as yours will soon be, but you will not join their ranks. The faithless priest has no flock.’
The priest raised his hands imploringly.
‘Please, let me explain. I’ve been a good man, a good shepherd. I can still make recompense for what I’ve done.’
The priest’s hands moved fast, but not fast enough. His nails reached for the the Collector’s eyes, raking at them, but the Collector pushed the priest away, and in the same movement flicked the blade at his throat. A small wound opened, and blood began to pour like wine from a tipped goblet. The priest fell to his knees before his judge, who reached down and removed the stole from the priest’s shoulders, then folded it into one of his own pockets. He lit a cigarette, and removed a metal canister from inside his coat.
‘You have been found wanting, priest,’ said the Collector. ‘Your soul is forfeit.’
He sprayed the lighter fluid over the head and upper body of the kneeling man, and took one long drag on his cigarette.
‘Time to burn,’ he said.
He flicked the cigarette at the priest, and turned his back as the man ignited.
IV
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed . . .
