Host of the Unforgiven

by G D Sheehen

  “Sorry we didn’t have time to prepare something more special for you Philip, but you did quite catch us by surprise.”

  “I wasn’t going to announce my visit, Mr Richards. I came here to get some answers.”

  “Oh. Why, I thought maybe you’d come to deliver the final instalment you’ve owed us for many years. Mr Brophy and I have never truly regained the kind of glory we shared with you and our covenant from yesteryear. And heaven knows, we’ve tried.”

  “You sick bastard.”

  “Now now,” said Brophy moving closer, the gun still pointed at him. “What kind of a way is that to speak to such a humble host as Mr Richards?”

  Mr Richards walked along the wall and reached for a switch near the bookshelf. The room lit up faintly by the two hanging lamps flanking the bookshelf. He pulled the hood back with two hands and looked shrivelled and gaunt, worsened by the backlit shadows cast on the deep crevasses of his old face. But his eyes looked exactly the same, domineering and righteous. He came almost face to face with Philip, unperturbed by how violent or strong he may have become in the last twenty-five years. Philip felt like a schoolboy again, docile and desperate for approval. Maybe Mr Richards hadn’t done any of the things for which I suspect him? Maybe he was just an eccentric who enjoyed stories and macabre theatrics?

  No! He had to be strong and find the answers he came here for.

  “What happened here when we were kids? Why did Rodge hang himself from one of your trees? And where are Eve and Mrs Richards?”

  “So many questions.” He stretched his head in closer. “Good god, Philip. You look dreadful. What have you been up to all these years?”

  “I’ve been shooting up heroin, living on the streets and spending several spells in jail. All because of what happened in this place.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation. Could you prove it in a court of law?”

  Brophy rounded the sofa and moved to the other side of Mr Richards so he could get a full view of everyone. Ray was still motionless on the ground.

  “You raped your own daughter.”

  “Take that back,” he shouted, his eyes bulging from their sunken sockets. “How dare you. I loved her with all the affection a father could love a daughter, one so possessed as she was, at least. She’s the one who controlled my every whim and desire. You know nothing you schizo little shit.”

  “What did you call me?”

  Mr Richards laughed a wheezy shriek, his head pointed to the heavens. Brophy joined in on the joke and chuckled, making the gun shake on and off its target. Philip considered making a go for it but thought better of it.

  “You surely remember; seeing things run around the place, answering questions in class to things you weren’t asked. Everyone laughed at you, besides me and Eve. And this is the gratitude you show me. Coming to my house in a state, accusing me of such vileness… At least you didn’t come empty-handed,” he said and looked down at Ray. “I suppose that’s one thing.”

  “Ooh. What a fabulous prize,” said Brophy in a high pitch that seemed unbecoming of such a large man. “Do his cronies know he’s here, right now, at this house?”

  Philip’s eyes dashed down at Ray then wandered around the room avoiding his captors.

  “I thought not,” said Brophy.

  He handed the gun to Mr Richards who took over pointing it at Philip. Philip followed his movement over to Ray who was starting to stir. Brophy reached down to him and Ray suddenly grabbed his hand and rummaged around his pockets in search of his blade. Philip let out an unintentional sigh of relief. Surely they had a fighting chance now. This was Ray’s kind of scene. Threats and violence.

  With a stiff thrust, Brophy pushed down both hands, caught him by the jacket collar, yanked him clean up in the air and slammed him down with a force the left a cringing sensation of muscle and bone being crushed off the ground. Ray was out again. Brophy picked him up and tossed him on the sofa like he was a small child. Philip couldn’t believe the strength of the man. Just like Mr Richards, he had to be about seventy years old by now.

  Mr Richards passed him back the gun and said, “Have a seat beside your friend, Philip. If you want to know the story of your past, we should assume the correct positions.”

  “Who’s in the chest?”

  Mr Richards looked down at the chest, flashed a sinister smile and said, “Why, that’s your dear friend, Rodge.”

  The room filled with the swirling cloud of lost souls, blinding Philip, taking his senses. He rushed at his old teacher and before he could enjoy the sensation of wrapping his fingers around his throat and squeezing with all his rage-filled might, the cloud darkened and subsumed him. He blacked out.

  The room cleared and the first thing he saw was the Dearg Due levitating high above the floor in the far corner, her head down, the shiny black of her eyes visible through her overhanging hair. The Vampire King stood on the threshold looking wantonly in his direction.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in, old friend? I believe it’s the only chance you have.”

  “Please, come in.”

  No sooner had the breath of the last word escaped Philip’s mouth and the vampire was crouched down over him lying on the ground, bearing his teeth, going in for his feed. It all went black again.

  He had a vision of him and Rodge playing on the beach, skimming stones, idle and carefree. The blue sky thickened with a maroon film and turned blacker than the darkest night. A scream rang up from behind them on the cliff, the one on the highest point above the crashing waves where they’d often laid on their stomachs looking down, wondering what damage would be done should someone fall down there.

  The rocks absorbed the white foam of the receding waves. A girl stood on the edge, her blond hair blowing as she looked back towards someone out of sight of the boys. She turned and jumped head first, shot down like a human missile, straight and intent.

  The boys ran towards an outcropping of rocks that could be scrambled on and led to where the girl would have landed. They scaled the sharp rocks using their hands for balance, not uttering a word, but joined in the horror of what awaited them around the bend. Philip was out in front. He rounded the cliff face for what seemed like an impossibly long time without reaching the site. He looked back and Rodge was gone. Then turned again to see a wooden door had appeared on the cliff wall.

  He approached the red door and recognised it immediately. As he reached out his hand to open it, a frantic knocking came from inside causing the brass knocker to bounce against the outside of the door.

  Philip felt a drop rolling down his face. It must be seawater ricocheting off the rocks and resting on his cold forehead. The knocking persisted, lowering in intensity, he struggled to open his eyes, blinking incessantly. In the dim light, he made out Ray beside him on the sofa, out cold. The knocking from the inside of the chest on his other side came to a stop. Mr Richards was sitting on his old armchair across from him, leering with a furled upper lip that might have been a smile. Philip couldn’t tell. Brophy was nowhere to be seen but Philip expected he was somewhere in the room.

  “Feels just like old times, don’t you think, Philip?”

  “Fuck you, Richards. You’ll suffer for what you’ve done.” He wiped his forehead and realised he was bleeding.

  “You can’t go attacking your favourite teacher like that. Mr Brophy had to put you down. But don’t worry, it’ll heal in time.”

  “You made us watch while you and Brophy raped your daughter and wife.”

  “Watch? Oh my, it seems your memory really has taken a turn for the worse.”

  “I never would have done that.”

  “You would have done whatever I told you to do. But you were a sensitive frigid little one. Can’t say the same for Rodge.”

  Philip grunted at the mention of his friend’s name.

  “Settle down now. You don’t want Mr Brophy to deal with you again.” He broke down laughing and Brophy joined in from behind him. “My good friend and trusted
accomplice always had a way with you. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”

  “He was resistant at first, but these kids know what they want deep down,” said Brophy, his nostrils flaring.

  A fleeting image of the Vampire King with Brophy’s face mounting him crossed Philip’s mind and he fought with all the will and mental energy he had to rid himself of the scene.

  “You see, Philip. The two of you actively and wantonly came here knowing what was happening, yet you continued to come. Why was that?”

  “We’re were eleven years old, for fuck sake. You took advantage of us.”

  “Au contraire. You came to my door, to this house, again and again, wishing for entry into a better world, and we allowed you in. But how does our story end?… You had such a wonderful talent. I was rather jealous, truth be known. Not only could you craft a great story at such a young age but your understanding of how to manipulate the English language to elicit such pure emotion was breath-taking. But you threw it all away, let conscience get in the way. The worse thing a writer can have is a conscience.”

  “That’s a load of bullshit. Empathy is the most important quality a writer can have. Anyway, none of that matters now. What matters is that you’re punished for what you’ve done. The gardaí are going to be very interested to hear about what goes on in this house.”

  “Oh please, Philip. What makes you think you’re ever going to have a chance to speak to anyone outside this house again? Rodge wanted back into the fold for years. He tried many times. But he’s weak and not the brightest spark. A brute, really. But you. All you had to do was show up and you were back in. That’s how high an esteem I hold you in.”

  “Rodge wasn’t the only one who committed suicide because of what went on here, was he?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Eve. She jumped off Widow’s Point. Me and Rodge saw her do it. And you buried her body in the back garden of this house and told people she’d gone off to England to live with relatives. What kind of a fucking monster does that, to his own daughter?”

  “Wow, that memory of yours really does play some vile tricks on you. What it doesn’t seem to recall is that you’re complicit in everything.”

  Philip attempted to straighten up in his seat but as he did so felt a dashing pain run down his back. As much as he tried to resist it, he left out a low groan.

  “Mr Brophy doesn’t know his own strength at times. But it’s kept us out of more than one jam in the past, that I can attest to.”

  He wriggled his body lightly to see if anything else was in pain but it was only his upper back. He thought if he had the chance he could probably make a run for it. But what about Ray? He couldn’t leave him here after helping him in the first place. His thought was interrupted by another blunt knocking sound. He looked at the chest then at Mr Richards who looked startled. Brophy pressed the barrel of the shotgun against the back of Philip’s head.

  “Who else have you told you were coming here?”

  Philip realised the knocking was coming from the front door. Whoever it was, would surely see the light from the drawing room through the curtains. He had no idea who it could be.

  “That would be Ray’s people. Not a crowd you want knowing where you live,” he said.

  Mr Richards gave Brophy a nod. Brophy went to the window and pulled the curtain back enough to see across to the front door.

  “It’s a man by himself. He’s a big bastard,” said Brophy.

  “Come here and keep an eye on these two. I’ll see who it is. If I’m not back in two minutes, you know what to do.”

  Ray groaned and moved beside Philip. Mr Richards left the room leaving the door half open, presumably to call for help if anything untoward was happening. The gleam of Ray’s blade caught his eye. He wondered if Brophy knew it was there.

  Brophy seemed preoccupied with the new visitor. He moved back towards the window again and cocked his ear, keeping his eye firmly on the sofa. Philip looked back at him and he waved the gun to signal for Philip to face forward. He complied. Ray was coming around, blinking and rubbing his temple. Two minutes were surely nearly up.

  Brophy let go of the curtain and rushed over to the door. He stood with his back against the wall and peered out the crack. He stepped out, his body half in, half out, with the gun held down. Philip thought he looked flummoxed and waited for an opportunity to go for the knife, halfway between him and Brophy.

  The silent tension was shattered by Ray shouting, “What the fuck have you done to me? I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

  Brophy barged back in the door and whispered for Ray to shut up pointing the gun directly at his head.

  “Philip? Is that you?” came a shout from a familiar voice down the hall. It was Paul Walsh.

  Philip remained quiet but Ray shouted again, “You get that fucking gun out of my face unless you fully plan on using it, you cunt.”

  Mr Richards protested loudly arguing that this was private property and a scuffle was clearly underway. Brophy sprung out the door. His loud footfalls creaked along the old floorboards. He yelled for Walsh to let go of Mr Richards. A violent rage rose up from Walsh’s voice that Philip couldn’t place. Ray was attempting to move but was still in too much pain to get up. Philip wasted no more time and made an excruciating break for the knife. As he crouched down to pick it up, leaving out another stiff groan, he collapsed on his rear with the shock of the shotgun sounding off with a deafening explosion. He got back to his feet and rushed out the door, fearing he would find Walsh lying dead on the floor.

  On reaching the foyer he found Mr Richards lying on his back, his legs and arms flailing like an upturned beetle and Walsh wrestling with Brophy to gain control of the gun. They stumbled back and forth in a formidable display of strength. Philip stalled a moment, then, when Brophy had his back to him, went forward and stabbed him with all his force, on the top of his shoulder. The scream of agony Brophy let out, would haunt Philip for weeks to come. He fell in a heap, incapacitated and defeated.

  A rage of anguish and pain surged up through Philip. He dived down on top of Mr Richards and began strangling him and roaring, “You destroyed us all you sick bastard, you destroyed us all.”

  Through the dizzying haze, the next thing he remembered was being pulled off him by Walsh and Ray.

  “Okay. He’s had enough, Philip. Leave something for the guards,” said Walsh.

  Philip was breathing so heavily he felt like one of his ribs were about to crack. “The leather chest. They have someone locked inside it.”

  “Jesus Christ, let’s go,” said Walsh. “You keep an eye on these two,” he told Ray.

  They ran down the hall, entered the drawing room. The chest was shaking from side to side, the muted wails of a woman coming from inside. Philip ran across the room, followed by Walsh, and dropped to his knees. He fumbled with the lock, unable to keep his hands steady.

  “Here, let me do it,” said Walsh.

  He quickly undid the leather strap keeping the large cover sealed shut, and pushed it open gently. She was crouched down, in a foetal position, her head pointed away from them, sobbing. A blue dress draped over her skeletal frame, her long hair grey and frizzly, covering her entire head and neck.

  “Mrs Richards, it’s gonna be okay. We’re here to set you free. They won’t hurt you anymore.” Her severe shaking subsided and she struggled to take some deep breaths. “It’s me Mrs Richards, Philip Quinlan. I don’t know if you remember me but-”

  She began to turn slowly. The mass of grey hair fell over her face obscuring her from their vision. She exhaled deeply several times and it soon became apparent that she was trying to speak.

  “Take it easy, Miss. The guards and ambulance are on their way,” said Walsh then stood up and took out his phone and dialled.

  “Please let me help you get out of there,” Philip said and offered her his hand.

  “Philip!” she whispered without taking his hand. “Philip!”

  Her hand trembled as she mov
ed strands of hair from her face, slowly revealing her emaciated features. Her eyes locked on his and his whole body tingled; he nearly passed out when he recognised her.

  “Eve,” he said, tears now streaming down his face. “Oh my god, Eve. It’s really you.”

  When the gardaí arrived ten minutes later, Ray had already left and Philip and Eve were sitting on the sofa, his arm around her, lost in their devastating silence that was about to end forever. Mr Richards protested his innocence, demanding they arrest Philip and Ray for breaking into his house. Walsh remained calm and explained as much as he could before they demanded Philip join them and make a statement.

  “They’re child rapists and have been holding his daughter prisoner since she was twelve years old. He drove his wife and my best friend to suicide and I’ve hidden it from myself for all these years.”

  Eve broke down and cried uncontrollably, clinging to Philip with all the strength she could summon.

  37

  “Cloudcrawler roamed the unforgiving terrains of the Otherworld for twenty-five years. During that time he came across demons and monsters who existed in the nether regions of neither here nor there. Great conflicts were waged on his part to rid the world of their evil doings. Sometimes he was successful, other times he failed and ended up assisting in strengthening those he wished to banish.

  “He chased an Alastor across the continent for months. An evil spirit of vengeance and crooked righteousness who sought the souls of those who committed wicked deeds, indiscriminate to loved ones and bystanders who would block his path. This is what Colm was unable to accept. He finally caught up with him on the small Greek island, Paros. The Alastor was a hideous beast with four long curved horns and half a dozen more short ones set on top of his long horse-like head. It reminded Colm so much of his traitorous mentor that he fought with reinforced vigour to defeat it. As they battled back and forth atop a sand-swept cliff, the Alastor sunk its long rounded teeth into his arm. While it bit down as hard as it could, Colm positioned himself so that he could strike down with his free hand and drive the yew sword through its heart. It pumped blue blood and transformed into a young boy the moment before it left this world for good.