a Prayer for the Dying (1974)[1]

by Jack Higgins

  The keys which had fallen from the overcoat pocket indicated the presence of Billy's car somewhere in the vicinity and if it was the red Scimitar, it should be easy enough to find. Fallon let himself out of the front door, hurried through the cemetery to the side gate.

  The Scimitar was parked at the kerb only a few yards away. He unlocked the tailgate and when he opened it, Tommy, the grey whippet, barked once, then nuzzled his hand. The presence of the dog was unfortunate, but couldn't be helped. Fallon closed the tailgate and hurried back to the presbytery.

  He pulled off the overcoat and went through the boy's pockets systematically, emptying them of everything they held. He removed a gold medallion on a chain around the neck, a signet ring and a wrist-watch and put them in his pocket, then he wrapped the body in the overcoat, heaved it over his shoulder and went out.

  He paused at the gate to make sure that the coast was clear, but the street was silent and deserted. He crossed to the Scimitar quickly, heaved up the tailgate with one hand and dumped the body inside. The whippet started to whine almost immediately and he closed the tailgate quickly and went back to the presbytery.

  He washed the scissors thoroughly in hot water in the kitchen, went back to the sitting-room and replaced them in the mending-box. Then he poured a little brandy in a glass and took it upstairs.

  She was already half asleep, but sat up to drink the brandy. Fallon said, 'What about your uncle? Do you want him to know what happened?'

  'Yes - yes, I think so. It's right that he should know.'

  'All right,' Fallon said, and he tucked the quilt around her. 'Go to sleep now. I'll be downstairs. You've nothing to worry about. I'll wait till your uncle comes back.'

  'He might be hours,' she said sleepily.

  'That's all right.'

  He walked to the door, 'I'm sorry to be such a nuisance,' she whispered.

  'I brought you to this,' he said. 'If it hadn't been for me none of this would have happened.'

  'It's pointless to talk like that,' she said. 'There's a purpose to everything under heaven - a reason - even for my blindness. We can't always see it because we're such little people, but it's there.'

  He was strangely comforted by her words, God knows why, and said softly, 'Go to sleep now,' and closed the door.

  Time, now, was the critical factor and he quietly let himself out of the front door and hurried through the churchyard to the Scimitar.

  Strangely enough, the whippet gave him no trouble during the drive. It crouched in the rear beside the body, whining only occasionally, although when he put a hand on it, it was trembling.

  He approached Pine Trees Crematorium by the back lane Varley had used that morning, getting out of the car to open the five-barred gate that led into the estate. He followed the same narrow track down through the cypress trees, cutting the engine for the last hundred yards which was slightly downhill. Not that it mattered, for as he remembered it, the superintendent's house and the main gate were a good quarter of a mile from the crematorium itself, so noise was really no problem.

  He left the Scimitar at the side of the chapel and gained access by reaching in through the broken pane in the lavatory which he had noticed during his visit that morning and unfastening the window itself.

  The chapel door had a Yale lock so it opened easily enough from the inside. He returned to the Scimitar. There was a torch in the glove compartment which he slipped into his pocket, then he raised the tailgate and heaved the body over his shoulder. The whippet tried to follow, but he managed to shove it back inside with his free hand and closed the tailgate again.

  He gained access to the furnace room by sliding the body along the rollers of the movable belt and crawling through after it himself, following the route the coffin had taken that morning.

  The furnaces were cold and dark. He opened the door of the first one and shoved the body inside. Next he produced the various items he had taken from Billy Meehan's pockets and examined them in the light of the torch. Those things which would burn, he placed on top of the body. The ring, the watch and the medal he put back in his pocket. Then he closed the oven door and pressed the switch.

  He could hear the muted rumble of the gas jets as they roared into life and peered inside. What was it Meehan had said? An hour at the most. He lit a cigarette, opened the back door and went outside.

  The sound of the furnace in operation was barely discernible outside the building. Not at all when he moved a few yards away. He went back inside to see what was happening. The gauge was just coming up to the thousand degrees centigrade mark and as he peered through the observation panel in the door, the wallet he had left on the body's chest burst into flames. The clothing was already smouldering, there was a sudden bright flash and the whole body started to burn.

  He lit another cigarette, went and stood at the back door and waited.

  At the end of the specified period he switched off. There was part of the skull, the pelvic girdle and some of the limbs clearly visible, and much of this crumbled into even smaller pieces at the first touch of the rake.

  He filled the tin box, found a handbrush and shovel, carefully swept up every trace of ash that he could see, then closed the furnace door leaving it exactly as he had found it. Certainly all heat would be dissipated again before the morning.

  He found an empty urn, screwed it on the bottom of the pulveriser then poured in the contents of the tin box. He clamped down the lid and switched on. While he was waiting, he opened the desk drawer and helped himself to a blank Rest-in-Peace card. When he switched off about two minutes later and unscrewed the urn, all that was left of Billy Meehan was about five pounds of grey ash.

  He walked along the path to the point Meehan had taken him to that morning until he came across a gardener's wheelbarrow and various tools, indicating where the man had stopped work that afternoon.

  Fallon checked the number plate and strewed the ashes carefully. Then he took a besom from the wheelbarrow and worked them well in. When he was satisfied, he replaced the besom exactly as he had found it, turned and walked away.

  It was when he reached the Scimitar that he ran into his first snag for as he opened the door to get behind the wheel, the whippet slipped through his legs and scampered away.

  Fallon went after it fast. It went round the corner of the chapel and followed the path he had just used. When he reached the place where he had strewn the ashes, the whippet was crouching in the wet grass, whining very softly.

  Fallon picked him up and fondled his ears, talking softly to his as he walked back. When he got behind the wheel this time, he held on to the animal until he had closed the door. He put it in the rear seat and drove away quickly.

  It was only after he had closed the five-barred gate behind him and turned into the main road again that he allowed that iron composure of his to give a little. He gave a long shuddering sigh, a partial release of tension, and when he lit a cigarette his hands were trembling.

  It had worked and there was a kind of elation in that. For a while it had seemed that Billy Meehan might prove to be just as malignant an influence in death as he had been in life, but not now. He had ceased to exist, had been wiped clean off the face of the earth, and Fallon felt not even a twinge of compunction.

  As far as he was concerned, Billy Meehan had been from under a stone, not fit to wipe Anna da Costa's shoes. Let be.

  When he reached Paul's Square, he turned into the mews entrance cautiously, but luck was with him to the very end. The yard was deserted. He ran the Scimitar into the garage, left both the keys and the whippet inside and walked rapidly away.

  When he got back to the presbytery, there was no sign of Father da Costa. Fallon went upstairs on tiptoe and peered into Anna's bedroom. She was sleeping soundly so he closed her door and went back downstairs.

  He went into the sitting-room and checked the carpet carefully, but there was no sign of blood. So that was very much that. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a large whisky. As he was
adding a dash of soda, the front door opened.

  Fallon turned round as Father da Costa entered the room. The priest stopped short in amazement. 'Fallon, what are you doing here?' And then he turned very pale and said, 'Oh, dear God! Anna!'

  He turned and moved to the stairs and Fallon went after him. 'She's all right. She's sleeping.'

  Father da Costa turned slowly. 'What happened?'

  'There was an intruder,' Fallon said. 'I arrived in time to chase him away.'

  'One of Meehan's men?'

  Fallon shrugged. 'Maybe - I didn't get a good look at him.'

  Father da Costa paced up and down the hall, fingers intertwined so tightly that the knuckles turned white. 'Oh, my God! he said. When will it all end?'

  'I'm leaving on Sunday night,' Fallon told him. 'They've arranged passage for me on a ship out of Hull.'

  'And you think that will finish it?' Father da Costa shook his head. 'You're a fool, Fallon. Jack Meehan will never feel safe while I am still in the land of the living. Trust, honour, truth, the sanctity of the given word. None of these exist for him personally so why should he believe that they have a meaning for someone else?'

  'All right,' Fallon said. 'It's all my fault. What do you want me to do?'

  'There's only one thing you can do,' Father da Costa said. 'Set me free in the only way possible.'

  'And spend my life in a maximum security cell?' Fallon shook his head. 'I'm not that kind of hero.'

  He walked to the front door and Father da Costa said, 'She is all right?'

  Fallon nodded soberly. 'A good night's rest is all she needs. She's a much stronger person than you realise. In every way.'

  He turned to go out and Father da Costa said, 'That you arrived when you did was most fortuitous.'

  'All right,' Fallon said. 'So I was watching the house.'

  Father da Costa shook his head sadly. 'You see, my friend, good deeds in spite of yourself. You are a lost man.'

  'Go to hell!' Fallon said and he plunged out into the rain and walked rapidly away.

  13

  The Church Militant

  Father da Costa was packing his vestment into a small suitcase when Anna went into the study. It was a grey morning, that eternal rain still tapping at the window. She was a little paler than usual, but otherwise seemed quite composed. Her hair was tied back with a black ribbon and she wore a neat grey skirt and sweater.

  Father da Costa took both her hands and led her to the fire. 'Are you all right?'

  'I'm fine,' she said. 'Truly I am. Are you going out?'

  'I'm afraid I have to. One of the nuns at the convent school of Our Lady of Pity died yesterday. Sister Marie Gabrielle. They've asked me to officiate.' He hesitated. 'I don't like leaving you.'

  'Nonsense,' she said. 'I'll be all right. Sister Claire will be bringing up the children from the junior school for choir practice at ten-thirty. I have a private lesson after that until twelve.'

  'Fine,' he said. 'I'll be back by then.'

  He picked up his case and she took his arm and they went through to the hall together. 'You'll need your raincoat.'

  He shook his head. 'The umbrella will be enough.' He opened the door and hesitated, 'I've been thinking, Anna. Perhaps you should go away for a while. Just until this thing is settled one way or the other.'

  'No!' she said firmly.

  He put down his case and took her by the shoulders standing there in the half-open doorway. 'I've never felt so helpless. So confused. After what happened last night, I thought of speaking to Miller.'

  'But you can't do that,' she said quickly - too quickly. 'Not without involving Fallon.'

  He gazed at her searchingly, 'You like him, don't you?'

  'It's not the word I would choose,' she said calmly. 'I feel for him. He has been marked by life. No, used by life in an unfair way. Spoiled utterly.' There was a sudden passion in her voice. 'No one could have the music in him that man has and have no soul. God could not be so inhuman.'

  The greatest gift God gave to man was free will, my dear. Good and evil. Each man has a free choice in the matter.'

  'All right,' she said fiercely. 'I only know one thing with any certainty. When I needed help last night, more than I have ever needed it in my life before, it was Fallon who saved me.'

  'I know,' Father da Costa told her. 'He was watching the house.'

  Her entire expression changed, colour touched those pale cheeks. 'And you don't care what happens to him?'

  'Oh, I care,' Father da Costa said gravely. 'More than you perhaps understand. I see a man of genius brought down to the level of the gutter. I see a human being - a fine human being - committing, for his own dark reasons, a kind of personal suicide.'

  'Then help him.' she said.

  'To help himself?' Father da Costa shook his head sadly. 'That only works in books. Seldom in life. Whoever he is, this man who calls himself Martin Fallon, one thing is certain. He hates himself for what he has done, for what he has become. He is devoured by self-loathing.'

  But by now she looked completely bewildered. 'I don't understand this - not any of it.'

  'He is a man who seeks Death at every turn, Anna. Who would welcome him with open arms.' He shook his head. 'Oh yes, I care what happens to Martin Fallon - care passionately. The tragedy is that he does not.'

  He turned and left her there in the porch and hurried away through the churchyard, head down against the rain, not bothering to raise his umbrella. When he moved into the side porch to unlock the sacristy door, Fallon was sitting on the small bench leaning against the corner, head on his chest, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

  Father da Costa shook him by the shoulder and Fallon raised his head and opened his eyes instantly. He badly needed a shave and the skin of his face seemed to have tightened over the cheekbones and the eyes were vacant.

  'A long night,' Father da Costa said gently.

  'Time to think,' Fallon said in a strange, dead voice. 'About a lot of things.'

  'Any conclusions?'

  'Oh yes.' Fallon stood up and moved out into the rain. 'The right place for me, a cemetery.' He turned to face da Costa, a slight smile on his lips. 'You see, Father, I've finally realised one very important thing.'

  'And what's that?' Father da Costa asked him.

  'That I can't live with myself any more.'

  He turned and walked away very quickly and Father da Costa moved out into the rain, one hand extended as if he would pull him back.

  'Fallon,' he called hoarsely.

  A few rooks lifted out of the tree on the other side of the churchyard, fluttering in the wind like a handful of dirty black rags, calling angrily. As they settled again, Fallon turned the corner of the church and was gone.

  When Anna closed the front door of the presbytery and went down the steps, she was instantly aware of the organ. She stood quite still, looking across the cemetery towards the church, head slightly turned as she listened. The playing, of course, was quite unmistakable. The heart quickened inside her, she hurried along the path as fast as she dared, tip-tapping with her stick.

  When she opened the sacristy door, the music seemed to fill the church. He was playing Pavane for a Dead Infanta, infinitely moving, touching the very heart of things, the deep places of life, brilliant technique and emotion combining in a way she would never have thought possible.

  He finished on a dying fall and sat, shoulders hunched for a long moment as the last echoes died away. When he swung round on the stool, she was standing at the altar rail.

  'I've never heard such playing,' she told him.

  He went down through the choir stalls and stood on the other side of the rail from her. 'Good funeral music.'

  His words touched the heart of her like a cold finger. 'You mustn't speak like that.' She forced a smile. 'Did you want to see me?'

  'Let's say I hoped you'd come.'

  'Here I am, then.'

  'I want you to give your uncle a message. Tell him I'm sorry, more sorry than I
can say, but I intend to put things right. You'll have nothing more to worry about, either of you. He has my word on that.'

  'But how?' she said. 'I don't understand.'

  'My affair,' Fallon told her calmly. 'I started it, I'll finish it. Goodbye, Anna da Costa. You won't see me again.'

  'I never have,' she said sadly, and put a hand on his arm as he went by. 'Isn't that a terrible thing?'

  He backed away slowly and delicately, making not the slightest sound. Her face changed. She put out a hand uncertainly. 'Mr Fallon?' she said softly. 'Are you there?'

  Fallon moved quickly towards the door. It creaked when he opened it and as he turned to look at her for the last time, she called, 'Martin, come back!' and there was a terrible desperation in her voice.

  Fallon went out, the door closed with a sigh and Anna da Costa, tears streaming down her face, fell on her knees at the altar rail.

  The Little Sisters of Pity were not only teachers. They also had an excellent record in medical missionary work overseas, which was where Father da Costa had first met Sister Marie Gabrielle in Korea in nineteen fifty-one. A fierce little French-woman who was probably the kindest, most loving person he had met in his entire life. Four years in a communist prison camp had ruined her health, but that indomitable spirit, that all-embracing love, had not been touched in the slightest.

  Some of the nuns, being human, were crying as they sang the offertory; 'Domine Jesu Christ, Rex Glorias, libera animas omnium fidelium ...'

  Their voices rose sweetly to the rafters of the tiny convent chapel as Father da Costa prayed for the repose of Sister Marie Gabrielle's soul, for all sinners everywhere whose actions only cut them off from the infinite blessing of God's love. For Anna, that she might come to no harm. For Martin Fallon that he might face what must be done and for Dandy Jack Meehan ...

  But here, a terrible thing happened, for his throat went dry and he seemed to choke on the very name.