Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  Connor’s eyes finally made out what Beck was staring at. ‘Ah, Christ,’ he said. ‘Ah Christ. Ah Christ.’

  The sergeant rushed forward, waving his hands in the air in that desperate way of people who don’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. Not for Garda Smith. Not now.

  Behind them, no one saw the figure dart into the alleyway. The wind, pushing from the west towards them, carried on it the faint echo of footsteps running between the buildings. Beck heard those footsteps, turned and walked to the mouth of the alley, peered in. At the end, a fleeting glimpse, a glint in the street light, moving from the alley, disappearing on to the street at the other end. He sprinted into the alley after it.

  Claire saw him go, was about to follow, but hesitated. Something at the very edge of her vision. She turned away from the alley, watched as the orange glow crept over the brow of the hill by the cathedral. Like a sunrise.

  ‘Fire!’ she screamed. ‘Fire! The presbytery’s on fire.’

  * * *

  Beck emerged onto the street at the other end of the alley. He stood there, holding his breath, listening. And saw it again, a glimpse of a yeti, a giant, a hulking great shape flitting between the shadows of the buildings, moving towards the river. He started after it again, regretting every cigarette he had ever smoked, every hangover he had ever endured. His legs felt wooden and heavy, but he pushed himself on. He crossed Main Street onto Bridge Street and reached the river wall. He stopped. His lungs were on fire now, his heart jackhammering inside his ribcage. There was a rattling, wheezing sound each time he sucked in air. He knew he was bending the needle, pushing it way, way into the red zone. It seemed like an eternity, but in fact was less than a minute, before the needle dropped out of the red zone and he regained his breath.

  There it was again, captured in the weak pools of light from the street lamps, moving along the riverbank now, moving slowly, as if goading him to follow. Beck slipped from the street through the gap in the wall and down towards the river. He cursed himself for not having brought a torch.

  It started to rain, sudden and vicious. Beck moved forward, the ground soggy and slippery underfoot. The rain stung his face, dripped into his eyes, the world becoming a black smudge.

  Two patrol cars were already pulling up at the end of the driveway to the presbytery when Claire swung the Focus into the cathedral car park. The fire brigade had not yet arrived. Cross Beg’s fire brigade was mostly volunteer. It would take a little time for these men – and they were all men – to get up from their warm beds, dress, travel to the station, change into their personal protective equipment and start up the fire engines.

  Claire stood with Sergeant Connor just outside the gates. The entire top floor of the house was ablaze, but the ground floor, strangely, was as yet untouched. Already the flames were licking just above the front door; it was possible to see the fire creeping down the wall, like a beast from hell, a deep, low, hungry rumbling noise coming from it as the wind’s churning air currents whipped it up into a greater frenzy.

  ‘Someone’s in there!’ It was Connor, pointing, his face alive in the light of the dancing flames.

  At the centre window on the top floor, behind the cascade of falling rain, an outline, a silhouette, squat and wide. What was it? Claire squinted, discerned the backrest of a chair, and it was enough for her brain to find the missing link and realise that it was someone sitting in a chair. As she watched, the chair began to move, shaking from side to side, then back and forth. And Claire understood: this person was not sitting in the chair, this person was tied to it, and they were trying to escape. And at that moment the window pane popped, shards of glass slicing through the air and onto the grass below, smashing onto the tarmac of the drive. And with it the sound of the desperate voice escaping: ‘Heeeeelp!’

  Beck stumbled ahead, his eyes half closed against the rain that was pummelling him, with nothing, no buildings or tree lines to weaken its intensity. He was disorientated, as if he’d woken up in a darkened room half drunk, groping about for a light switch or door handle, anything to corral the darkness and reassure him he had not fallen into a black hole. He had no idea where he was on the riverbank.

  He took a step forward, but as his foot came down he knew he had travelled too far. There was nothing there; he was right on the edge of the riverbank. He brought his foot back up, vulnerable and off balance, and it was then that he felt his arms being pressed in on either side of him, and he was being turned around and around, spun like a top, then released. And now he was falling backward. In that instant before he hit the water, he twisted like a cat, his legs in front of him, his upper body contorting into an exaggerated ‘C’ shape. Beck was not trying to stop himself from falling; it was too late for that. He was just trying to take the bastard who had pushed him down too. He hit the water, felt the coldness like a punch to the solar plexus, the water flooding his nostrils and mouth, his arms flailing about through the air. He felt something with one hand, not knowing what it was, and his other hand, as it followed, reached out and wrapped itself around it too and held on with the desperate determination of a drowning man. And as Beck held on, what he was holding gave way and he was swept away with it. He still held it in his hand, but it began to spasm now, jerking furiously, hitting him in the side of his face, again, and again, and again. And Beck felt the hot liquid on his face that was his blood and he understood what was happening. Someone was kicking him in the face.

  The other windows were popping now, too, a series of crackling sounds with the whoosh as the pent-up energy from the fire was released, like air brakes on an out- of-control juggernaut.

  Claire looked on, her mind a roller coaster but her body rigid, stuck to the spot. A voice inside her screamed Move! Do something! For God’s sake. You have to do something.

  But she did not move; she did not know what to do.

  And like a force propelling her, she turned and began running towards the public order van a little way behind, the beginnings of a vague idea forming in her head. ‘The keys? Are they in it? The fucking keys. Are they in it?’

  Connor looked back at her. His hands began moving to his pockets, began to rummage about looking for them. But she was at the van now, opening the driver’s door, leaning in. Saw the key. In the ignition. Sat in. Turned it. Felt the cold blast of air from the heater as the engine started like an unexpected embrace.

  * * *

  Beck released it, pushed it away, this thing kicking him in the face. But it came back again. He watched it splash into the water next to his ear. It rose from the water again, but Beck grabbed it before it could come down a second time. He pulled on it and used it to leverage himself through the water, clawing at the body beneath him, ignoring the flaying hands until his weight pushed against it, forcing it under the water. Still he did not let it go as he felt it pushing and squirming beneath him. He felt the hornet’s nest of pain on his face for merely a moment before his mind cast the pain aside, too busy with the business of surviving to consider anything else. He held onto the body for as long as possible, until it stopped moving. Then he released it, and almost immediately a dark shape rose from beneath the water next to him, and he could see the pale, dead face of Father Clifford, frozen eyes staring into his. He was midstream, where the currents were most powerful, within the miniature whirlpools of water. He saw the body of Father Clifford tumble through a white top and into a trough of water. It did not come out again. Beck was carried along, the currents pulling him under, dragging him down as if yanked on a chain, then pop, it released him again, and he swam frantically what he thought was up, until he broke the surface, sucking air into his seared lungs before the ice-cold tentacles reached out again, gripping him, pulling him down, down…

  The Scarecrow was laughing, bent over double, hands on knees, looking up at him every so often before quickly turning away again, as if the sight of Beck fighting for his life was too much of a pleasure to bear.

  Beck stopped fighting. He was too tired now.
He did nothing, was simply swept along. He had given up.

  Behind the Scarecrow, Beck could see all the way down, down into the depths where the Old Duffer, the others, the misfits, the ogres, the dead, were coming out to watch. It was the dead who were the most interested, Jason Geraghty amongst them, standing at the back, his clothes blackened by the scorch marks where he had been shot, and smeared red with his blood. They had opened their door wide, the dead, waiting for him to come and join them.

  Beck was swept along, surprised at how easy it was. How easy it was to die.

  He was almost there now, where the water was no longer cold, but instead warm and still. He was almost there.

  But then he saw her: Natalia.

  He opened his mouth, but there was no air now in his lungs, nothing to disturb the water, not even a single bubble. All that moved were his lips as he mouthed the words ‘I love you’. His legs and arms began to kick about in a wild rage.

  The engine howled as Claire drove the public order van towards the burning building, the inferno up ahead filling the windscreen. The heat was like putting your head into the open door of a burning stove. It was almost unbearable… almost.

  When it seemed she was about to journey into the very flames themselves, Claire whipped the steering wheel to the right. The front wheels clawed at the melting tarmac, the rear wheels sliding the car wide in an arc, and then she stamped her foot on the brake pedal and the van lurched to a stop, side on to the fire. She opened the door, taking off her jacket and covering her face as she clambered out.

  Was this too little, too late?

  She screamed towards the window: ‘Topple! Lean forward. Topple! Now, for God’s sake. Topple!’

  But her voice seemed lost to the roar of the fire. Whoever was up there was going to die anyway, she thought. Even if they did topple, that didn’t mean they’d survive… Ah fuck, I don’t know.

  Anyway, it was too late, she suddenly decided. The fire was curling through the windows now, and Claire could smell something, like the acrid stench of singeing hair. Then realised that was what it was. Singeing hair. Her singeing hair.

  Just a little longer, she told herself. Just a little longer.

  And then, as if in slow motion, the shape moved, joined with the flames, becoming one with them, but only briefly, before separating, falling from the flames, falling from the window, turning over as it went, falling through the air.

  Voomp! It landed on the roof of the van, the metal crumpling beneath it, and by its sound, Claire thought – Claire hoped – it was the back of the chair that had taken the impact, because if it was the front… Jesus, please let it be the back.

  Claire became aware of people coming to her, running, led by Sergeant Connor. The chair and its occupant were sliding from the roof of the van; hands reached out, strong, powerful hands, grasping it, catching it before it impacted with the ground, starting to carry it away, swiftly away, Claire behind, running from the flames that crackled and roared like a beast seeking to devour them.

  Anger had propelled him, had given him the reserve of energy he needed and held him, sustained him just long enough – a second maybe, but enough to keep life in his veins until he bobbed to the surface on the turning current and he could gulp at the precious air, literally breathe life into his body then wait to go back down again, knowing that he would not survive this time. But he did not go down again. Instead, Beck was on the other side of the churning water, in the river estuary, where the water stretched out between wide banks on its approach to the sea, where it was calm, where the wind could no longer funnel between the narrow banks and whip the water into a frenzy.

  Beck stretched his body and did not move, for there was nothing more for him to give. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to simply be carried along on the gentle current, heading towards the shore.

  Eighty-Six

  There was a warmth in the air, the sky a canopy of blue stretching from one end of the world to the other. The weathered old buildings along the crooked streets in the centre of town, those stooped and grey buildings with their black slate roofs latticed in green moss, seemed to stretch before the yellow-washed sun.

  But there was a silence. Everywhere. Even the traffic seemed to move quietly, without sound. It was as if an enemy had gone through the town, leaving behind the stillness of death.

  And shock too.

  It would take time, a long time, for Cross Beg to recover.

  Beck was sitting on the edge of the bed in his room at the County Hospital, looking for his missing slipper. He’d woken during the night without any recollection of how he had arrived here, content to lie still and quiet in the half-light – for hospital rooms were never truly dark – feeling grateful that he was simply alive. This morning his nurse had informed him that heavy doses of morphine had been administered, which explained the Zen-like calm he had experienced.

  He’d like to try that again.

  Where was the ruddy slipper? He gave up, walked to the door, stretched his arm out towards the handle when the door swung open and Claire Somers was standing there. Her flesh, on her hands and face, where the flesh had been exposed to the intense heat, was tenderised and red, her hands covered in dry dressing.

  ‘They only just told me,’ she said. ‘That you were… Jesus, your face.’

  She was in a dress. It was the first time he’d seen her in a dress. Even if the dress was a hospital gown.

  Beck had forgotten about his face, because there was no pain. He went to the sink next to the door and looked in the mirror over it. One eye was ringed in black like a panda bear’s, his jaw yellow and purple with flashes of red where the skin had broken, his right cheek swollen like a bowl.

  ‘And you?’ he said, turning to her, the words lopsided. He felt like he had a tennis ball in his mouth.

  ‘Minor burns.’

  Her hair looked like a Brillo pad. He was about to say that her burns didn’t look all that minor to him, but decided against it.

  They had both survived. That is what mattered.

  Eighty-Seven

  The book he’d been reading was resting on his chest when Beck opened his eyes. It was dark now. A sliver of light came under the door from the corridor outside. He reached up and turned on the switch over his bed. The morphine had worn off. His face hurt, his legs hurt, his arms hurt. Everything hurt. He became aware of somebody in the room. He turned his head. Natalia was sitting there. He blinked. It really was her.

  ‘I had to see you,’ she said. Her hand reached out and sought his, held it gently, the flesh warm, soft, so soft. She’d been crying. ‘I didn’t know what to… You’re alive. Thank God. You’re alive.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you. You came.’

  ‘I love you, Beck. You know that. I never stopped loving you.’

  He said nothing. They looked at one another, silently staring into one another’s hearts.

  ‘I want to kiss you,’ she said. ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Very gently.’

  She leaned forward. He could smell her perfume, like fresh flowers. Her lips found his. It stung a little, but he moved against them, forgetting the discomfort. The moment their lips touched, he felt a warm, quivering sensation. Then she sat back. ‘I don’t think we should.’

  ‘I think we should.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Are you staying overnight?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m driving back. I want to be back by ten.’

  ‘Or do you have to be back by ten?’

  ‘I had to see you. He doesn’t know I’ve gone anywhere.’

  Beck looked away, took his hand from hers. There was a new feeling now, a hollow, empty, cold feeling.

  ‘Please, Beck.’

  ‘Why do you do this?’

  ‘Do what?’ There was hurt in her tone.

  ‘This. Give with one hand, but take away with the other.’

  ‘That’s not fair. Really.’

  Beck
said nothing for a minute. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he replied slowly.

  ‘Please, Beck…’

  ‘I mean it. Thank you for coming.’

  He could hear the sound of her breathing. She stood, holding her small handbag in both hands in front of her. Her nails were perfectly painted. She turned, and he watched her go, noting the high heels and the perfect legs, the curve of the hips inside the tight dress.

  As the door closed he picked up his book and threw it on the floor.

  The Aftermath…

  * * *

  Series of brutal killings leaves Cross Beg reeling

  * * *

  By Lucy Grimes

  * * *

  One small town. One crazed killer. One devastating secret. One church’s sanctity violated. No, this is not the blurb to a Hollywood blockbuster. This is what happened in Cross Beg, Galway. And it happened last week. Our reporter Lucy Grimes tells it like it is. She tells the real story. It begins right here...

  As funerals continue this week for the victims of the gruesome series of murders in the sleepy south Galway town of Cross Beg, the question on everyone’s lips is this: how was it possible?

  I first met the person everyone thought of as Father Matthew Clifford when he returned to Cross Beg almost two years ago now. A tall, imposing man, with cold, piercing eyes, he claimed he’d spent more than thirty years as a missionary priest at various locations in the Republic of the Congo. The rumour he’d been sent there after getting local girl Angela Farmer pregnant was long forgotten. The nineteen-year-old Farmer had been employed as a part-time housekeeper in the presbytery at the time when Father Clifford, a curate, had lived there. It was the talk of Cross Beg back then.