by WR Armstrong
Donnelly was happy at St Anthony’s, and in the main its congregation was happy with him. The ready acceptance of people to his appointment allowed him to forget the unpleasant episode that had forced his transfer. It had been a messy business with allegations of misconduct and impropriety levelled against him. Although the allegations went unproven the damage was done, and he was promptly removed from the district. The priest’s accusers found themselves powerless against the might of the Church, which in their view had closed ranks like some kind of Masonic sect to protect its own interests, and those of its members.
Donnelly, once transferred, quickly settled into life at St Anthony’s; appreciative of the fact he’d been given a second chance, for which he thanked the Lord greatly and unreservedly. He wasted no time getting to know the area and its residents and sermonised at every given opportunity, spreading the word of God with renewed enthusiasm. He started a Sunday school for the local youngsters to attend, attracting their presence like a latter day Pied Piper. He had a way with children, especially the boys, who loved to hear his heroic soldiering tales. They perceived him as a kindly uncle. The priest tried never to abuse their trust.
But it proved impossible so attracted was he to their youth and innocence, their unspoiled beauty. Inevitably, the secret urges that had almost brought about his downfall during his last ministry overtook him. The old crypt, originally some kind of mausoleum with thick columns and a vaulted roof, concealed from view behind the present church, whose existence was long since forgotten, became his secret refuge, his squalid den of iniquity. It was here that he would bring his young victims, enticing them with sweets and small gifts, assuring them it was an innocent game. If they protested, as they occasionally did, he would tell them it was God’s will. That Jesus would be upset if they resisted, that it was all part of growing up. They must never tell, of course, it had to remain a secret. The priest knew he risked certain ruination should he be caught in the act, but he could not help himself. Afterwards terrible guilt and shame would consume him, prompting him to pray to the Almighty for forgiveness and the strength to resist further temptation. And for a while the violations would stop. But sooner or later the compulsion would return, heralding another sullied episode.
On one of these excursions into the crypt Donnelly came across a sealed door in an annex to the rear of the subterranean room. The door was of solid stone and quite immovable. Already puzzled by the fact that this particular crypt was built away from the church, when crypts were usually connected, he wondered if some kind of interconnecting tunnel lay beyond. Moreover, he considered the possibility there might be other chambers offering better protection against possible discovery. He was determined at some stage to force entry and investigate.
It was almost lunchtime and Donnelly was sitting alone at his desk, staring out of the rectory window, ruminating. Sunday school had just ended. The children were on his mind. One in particular, a kid called Tommy O’Brien. The children had said a touching prayer for little Tommy this morning, for Tommy was a tube crash victim. He’d been laid to rest in St Anthony’s graveyard Friday last. A tragic business thought Donnelly, gazing out at the Garden of Remembrance and the distant gravestones, one marking the child’s final resting-place. Death was always tragic, but even more so when it claimed one so young. To compound matters, the child had been one of his favourites. He would miss the precious little thing terribly. Tommy had had the softest skin and bluest eyes of any child he had ever known—and he’d been so very trusting. The priest’s thoughts turned to the boy’s mother, Patricia O’Brien, his housekeeper. He wondered what had made her change her mind about her son’s burial arrangements. Originally, the widow had wanted the boy cremated. A typical woman, he thought, weak, unable to reach even the simplest decision without making a song and dance about it. How he loathed and despised them.
He recalled how dithering his mother used to be, especially in his father’s presence. His mother was a mouse of a woman, timid, indecisive and weak willed. But oh how she changed when the two of them were alone with his father out of the house at work, or down the pub. That was when she would show her true colours treating him cruelly, and forcing him to dress in girlish clothing she kept hidden from his father. It was no secret she had wanted a daughter and had been distraught when told she would be unable to have any more off spring following his birth. It followed that the priest grew up to resent everything the female gender stood for. They were selfish and cruel, yet pretended to be kind and compassionate. They were hypocrites, all of them. Fear had forced him to keep secret from his father his mother’s ill treatment of him. His father, he decided, must have sensed his unhappiness for John Donnelly would often comfort him whenever his mother was out of the way, using gentle caresses and kisses that made him feel wanted and secure. Years later he would find himself giving similar comfort to children in his care, only he went further. Knowing his actions were unlawful failed to deter for he loved children; and when had loving someone ever done any harm?
The study door opened. The priest turned to see Patricia O’Brien enter the room carrying a tray containing tea and biscuits. He smiled benignly, though the smile failed to reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“It’s no bother,” she said placing the tray on the desk. Her gaze was drawn to the window, to the graveyard where her son was buried. She was having difficulty coming to terms with the child’s passing Donnelly realised. Her face looked drawn and haggard. She had lost weight. The priest wondered how she would cope with no family to lend support during the traumatic episode. Not that he particularly cared. She was a woman after all, and weak like his mother. They were all the same, demanding sympathy one moment, despicably cruel the next. Nevertheless, he must keep up the facade of being seen to care for he was a man of God.
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said, knowing she did, for she’d confided the fact during confessional. The day of the accident Tommy had wanted to travel home on the bus. She had insisted taking the tube, as it was quicker. A typical woman, stubborn to the bitter end, he thought.
“I miss him so,” she said thickly.
He smiled again, and invited her to sit.
“What’s on your mind, child?”
“I have a rather unusual question to ask of you, one which I’m afraid might offend,” she said with difficulty. She stared fixedly at the crucifix around his neck. He waited for her to continue, trying to curb his growing impatience. Finally, in a voice filled with emotion, she questioned him in his professional capacity on the subject of spiritualism and the occult, with emphasis placed on the possibility of raising the dead, her line of thought obvious given the fate of her young son. Donnelly, although shocked, understood her motivation for considering the possibilities of philosophies and rituals outlawed by the Orthodox Christian Church and, having given the matter due consideration, replied, “Death is a part of living: it is the Lord’s will. He giveth and He taketh away. It is not the place of mere mortals to make such decisions, even if they had the power to do so. To even attempt to raise the dead is considered a terrible sin.”
The woman was undeterred. “But what if they should return as they were before, Father?”
“God has deemed there to be a boundary between the world of the living and that of the dead,” Donnelly cautioned, “which must never be breached.”
“But it’s so unfair,” she complained tearfully. “My son’s life has been made utterly pointless by virtue of his premature death.” She gazed at the large wooden cross standing reverently upon the fireplace mantle, which bore the crucified figure of Christ. “I hear voices,” she then admitted much to Donnelly’s surprise and consternation, “voices that proclaim crucifixion as being the key to eternal life.”
The priest disliked the direction the conversation was taking. “The cross is an instrument of violence and suffering,” he argued. “Why, it is the most humiliating, barbarous instrument ever devised for executing human beings.”
> “But does not the Bible state that the cross is a symbol of forgiveness and peace with God, and the assurance of eternal life?” she challenged.
“Only by virtue of Christ’s suffering,” Donnelly pointed out.
“He was crucified and rose again.”
“He is the Son of God. The cross was instrumental, never causal in the event of his resurrection.”
“Are you offended by the cross, Father?”
“Only by its function. The cross is not crucial to the death and rising of Christ. What is important is the reality of the crucifixion of Christ, who gave his life to pay for the sins of all humanity.” Patricia O’Brien seemed unconvinced. “By rejecting sin and obeying God,” he continued, “Christian life can be described as sharing in Christ’s death on the cross. The cross is a symbol used to remind us of an event just like a wedding ring is worn to remind the wearer of the sacred marital vows they undertook. The cross reminds us of the sacrifice made by our Saviour. What was originally the Roman symbol of death becomes the symbol of Christ's victory over sin and death, and of our victory in him.”
Determined to get her point across, Patricia said, “You perceive the cross through the event of Christ’s death, and fail to concern yourself with its broader concept. I have read that the cross also serves as a vessel through which spirits can rise up.”
“Be very careful,” cautioned Donnelly. “You are journeying into Pagan belief my child. The theory offers nothing other than false hope.”
“But I want my son back!” she declared. “Is that so very wrong?”
“Necromancy is a sin. To claim the cross possesses life-giving properties is unchristian. The cross was a form of execution with no redeeming features other than Christ died on it to save humanity.”
The housekeeper stood from her seat, thanking the priest for his time and his understanding, and withdrew from the room. Her shift over, she collected her belongings from the cloakroom and left the rectory, thinking secret thoughts about her son. He was not dead, assured the mysterious voices rooted inside her head, he merely rested, death being an untimely interlude in his young life. The priest was wrong. Soon he would wake to be reunited with her, his natural born mother. He would rise again through the power and majesty of crucifixion.
Behind her the rectory door opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see the priest approaching. He spoke to her at length, offering reassurance that the Christian God was a loving God. In truth his motives for prolonging their dialogue was borne of concern that the woman was unstable, and instability was the last thing he needed in an employee trusted with the keys to his home. “These voices you hear,” he said as they stood in the bleak early afternoon light. “What else do they tell you?”
Patricia was suddenly on her guard. He wanted to know too much. She may not be able to trust him, priest or not. She realised it was the voices pushing doubts into her head. The priest repeated his question. She resisted, saying nothing, apologising for questioning the principals of Christianity. She thought she sounded cold and distant, not herself at all. The priest appeared not to notice.
“Should you need to talk again,” he said kindly. “I want you to know my door is always open.”
“I have to go,” she replied and hurried away along the leafy path, gritting her teeth against the numbing cold. As she passed an acorn tree the wind picked up tugging sharply at her coat, nearly dislodging her hat from her head. Rain threatened. Luckily, she only lived a stone’s throw away. She would be glad to get home where she could be alone with her thoughts and those of the voices. She already knew what she must do to get back her son. The thought had horrified her initially, but the voices were persuasive. She must act before much longer or problems would be encountered, for Tommy had been in the earth almost a full week.
She looked skywards. Her gaze was met by thick cloud. As she continued on her way, the wind buffeted her body and bit at her face, forcing her to screw up her eyes. She felt giddy, was concerned she might faint before she got home. She really didn’t feel herself. Part of her, the part still in control of her psyche warned against what she contemplated. The Bible said it was wrong, dangerous, to invite the dead to return. Yet the voices condoned the act, encouraged it in fact. She must do it for the sake of her son as much as for her own sake. It was not his time to die. She could not accept his premature death. The voices were offering her the chance to effectively turn back time and to be reunited with Tommy forever. All she had to do was obey them.
While she was at home contemplating the night ahead, the priest stood at her son’s grave, thinking about the angelic little boy, and the effect his tragic death had had upon the mother. Donnelly determined grief must have temporarily destabilised her thinking. She was a God fearing woman: why else would she start to entertain the idea of raising the dead? She was unable to accept the finality of her son’s death. She needed counselling to help her overcome her trauma.
After leaving the child’s grave the elderly priest made his way to the back of the rectory where the forgotten crypt stood, its entrance concealed by dense bushes. Having descended a short flight of steps, he struggled to force open the heavy stone door, scraping his fingers, cursing aloud. As always it yielded reluctantly. He squeezed his slight frame between the narrow gap created and stepped down into the vestibule of the subterranean room. He fumbled for the torch he kept on the stone shelf running the length of the wall. Having located it, he switched it on. In the far corner a camp bed and an unstable wicker chair was illuminated along with an outdated Polaroid camera, and an album containing explicit photographs of his young victims. Nearby were children’s books, crayons and toys used to relax the youngsters who visited the crypt. He crossed the room, his footsteps echoing. From beneath the bed he retrieved a pile of pornographic magazines. He smiled to himself; the twisted side to his character winning through. He scanned through the sordid pages, an eager hand straying beneath his cassock as he sought sexual gratification.
Afterwards, he removed incriminating photographs of the late Tommy O’Brien from his private collection, to be destroyed. The boy was dead and no longer a part of his life. There would be others. Indeed there already were, though none were as special as Tommy. He slipped out of the crypt forcing the door shut behind him, relieved to be out of the place, knowing it was risky being there. To be seen would lead to certain ruin but he could not resist the privacy and opportunity the crypt offered. Nevertheless the thought of prison terrified him, knowing prison officers and ordinary criminals alike would revile him for his crimes. If he continued to be careful there was no reason why his secret life of debauchery would ever be discovered. He was confident his victims would not give him away for they loved him, he was sure. Removal from his previous parish was due not to betrayal: rather his own carelessness had brought about his downfall. The mother of one of his victims had caught him in a compromising position with her young son. Although no firm evidence existed to substantiate the mother’s claims that her child had been interfered with, Donnelly’s superiors made the decision to have him discreetly removed, worried there might be a scandal.
The priest burned the pictures of dead Tommy O’Brien in the potbelly on his return to the rectory. The child was history. No matter what his poor misguided bitch of a mother thought he would never return. Before preparing for evening mass the priest prayed to God for forgiveness of his sins, while three streets away Pat O’Brien lay in a darkened room staring vacantly up at the ceiling, a mental picture in her mind of the crucifix standing in Father Donnelly’s study. The voices spoke to her, proclaiming the glory of resurrection. Pat O’Brien wept for the loss of her dead son.
But you can have him back, the voices whispered temptingly. Have him back as he was, as good as new.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was just after 5am when Bill Wilkinson’s phone call woke McGrath.
“Better get down to the underground as soon as you can,” he advised. “There’s been an accident. And I hate to tell you
this Paul, but we’ve made a discovery that might have serious ramifications for the rebuild program.”
McGrath wanted to know more but Wilkinson was reluctant to elaborate, saying simply, “It’s pretty hectic here at the moment. If you don’t mind I’ll explain what’s happened when you arrive.”
The conversation ended and McGrath sprang out of bed, prematurely waking the pretty blonde female lying next to him. Her name was Ally: she was a twenty-eight year old English law student whom McGrath had met in a nightclub some weeks ago. They’d been dating on and off ever since with Ally occasionally staying over. The generation gap meant they had little in common, but the physical attraction was powerful. As far as McGrath was concerned, their relationship was of a lightweight nature; no more than a pleasant distraction from everyday life.
Ally roused herself from sleep and sat up holding the bed sheets protectively against her breasts. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Paul?”
“Business,” he said as he hurriedly threw on his clothes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to let yourself out. I’ve got to race.”
“Why do you always have to jump whenever work beckons?”
“Nature of the job...”
She rolled her eyes. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and all that crap.”
“Got it in one,” McGrath concurred.
“Isn’t there ever an exception?” She let the bed sheets fall away and smiled invitingly.
McGrath was unwavering. “I’m afraid not Ally. As much as I’d like to stay and get friendly, it just isn’t possible.” He zipped his trousers and quickly buckled his belt.
“So when will I see you again, Paul?”
“Soon,” he replied as he hurriedly left.
Ally folded her arms and pouted. “In other words don’t call me, I’ll call you,” she said to the empty room.
