The day was perfect. Small isolated clouds lazed in the sky like fat white cats watching the world go by – no desire to move, no breeze to kiss them along. The stillness in the air was uncanny. Suddenly Cathy felt chilled, apprehensive. Quickly now, before she weakened, Cathy unlocked the car door, climbed in, started the engine and was soon on her way, into the lane, past the yard and out, on to Safford Lane. At the crossroads, she lingered awhile. A left turn would take her into Bedford – where she had told Matt she was going – the road to the right went through Appley and on to Roburn. She glanced at the dashboard clock… six fifteen. Still much too early. She began to grow agitated. What to do? How to spend the next hour. She was growing afraid now. The longer she waited, the more her confidence was eroded. That creeping sensation was rising in her. It was never far away, but there were times when her thoughts were lucid, when good suppressed evil. It was during one of those lulls that Cathy had decided what she must do. It was only murmuring now, slowly awakening, but already she felt it writhing, beginning to assert its malevolent influence. Sometimes it was hard – impossible – not to let her senses submit. There was something so incredibly beautiful there, so sweet and persuasive. A sudden thought occurred to her, and it made her blood run cold. This malign influence that played on her night and day… did it know what she was thinking? Had it somehow learned of her intention? Back came the answer from within herself. It did know! And it knew she was planning to betray it.
Growing increasingly agitated, Cathy swung the car to the right. She had to get to Roburn. There was no time to waste. Already, that strange devastating calm was settling on her. She had not understood. She did not understand now. Yet she was convinced of one thing; either she was losing her mind, or there was an agent of unspeakable evil at work on her. She had never been one to believe in such things… things of the dark, things that you could neither touch nor see, neither smell nor hear. And yet she could ‘hear’ this wickedness in her, because it had a voice, a whispering enchanting sound that was hard to resist. It was too strong, too intense.
There was little traffic on the road as yet. Normally, what with the new motorway junction and the many lorries that left and joined the motorway here, it would take a good half hour to travel from Holden to Roburn. Today, at such an early hour, it took only twenty minutes. When Cathy turned in off the main road and drove into the car park of All Saints’ Church, the clock on the dashboard showed Cathy that there was still twenty-five minutes to go before seven a.m.
Switching off the engine, she made no move to get out of the car. Instead, she snapped loose the seat belt and leaned back in the chair. She felt nauseous, suddenly unable to breathe. It was as though two iron-like hands were pressing into her throat, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Through the windscreen she could see the red-bricked church with its thick stumpy spire, and the words in Latin over the door ‘Ferme En Foy’… her father had once told her that the words meant ‘Forever Open’. If so, it was a lie, because the tall, arched inner doors were tightly shut, and the iron outer gates were padlocked. A bubble of wickedness rose in her, bursting in a low, garbled laugh, then the voice, her voice, but not easily recognisable, whispering aloud. ‘How can you trust a God who lies?’ The smile slid from her face. Stronger, still afraid, she challenged, constantly reminding herself of what the old lady had told her. ‘Fight it,’ she had said with tears flowing down her aged face. ‘Trust in God.’
Getting out of the car, Cathy leaned her arms on the roof, her anxious gaze flicking from the church to the priest’s house close by, then beyond, to the churchyard. Above the low-rising wall could be seen line upon line of memorials, granite crosses and extravagant urns, open books and statues of angels. Always in the summer months the graveyard was a blaze of colour, each and every grave lovingly dressed with beautiful plants and flowers. In the far corner, beneath a magnificent cedar tree, the whole area was densely covered in a carpet of reds and golds, wreaths, sprays and floral crosses. The flowers were new. The loss was recent, the grief lingered in the air like incense.
‘All right, are you, miss?’ The old man’s voice startled Cathy out of her dark meditation. ‘Are you waiting to get into the churchyard?’ he asked kindly. He paused beside the car. Taking off his neb-cap, he placed it on the car roof. Leaning his shovel against the wheel, he waited, his old face tipped upwards, mouth open to show a crooked yellow set of teeth. With the sun glistening on his shiny bald head and his shocking white whiskers jutting out from beneath each ear, he resembled a gargoyle.
‘No. I’ve come to speak with the priest,’ Cathy told him, at the same time reaching into the car and taking out her bag and jacket. Putting the jacket on, she locked the car door and dropped the keys into her pocket.
‘Father Patrick, yer mean?’ Cathy nodded. ‘Well now, ’e ain’t usually about at this time of a morning, unless o’ course ’e’s called out ter give the last rites or some such emergency.’ He regarded Cathy with curiosity. He could see that she was under some sort of stress. ‘Got a relative tekken bad, ’ave yer?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Can’t you come back later?’
‘No. I have to see him now.’
The old man stared hard at her. He could see the sweat beginning to trickle down her temples. As the sun wasn’t yet fierce and there was still a bit of a nip in the air, he thought the young woman must be ill. He scrutinised her for a moment longer before revealing, ‘Like I said, ’e ain’t usually about at this time of a morning, but there’s a special service first thing today.’ He jerked his thumb backwards over his shoulder. ‘Ye’ll find him in there.’
Cathy was surprised. ‘You mean, in the church?’
‘That’s right, miss.’
‘But… the doors are locked. How do I get in?’
‘Down the side. There’s a small door… ye’ll see.’ He quickened his step, widening the distance between them. He seemed a homely sight to Cathy, his aged figure shuffling along, the cap resting loosely to one side of his head and the shovel balancing on his shoulder after the habit of a lifetime.
When the old man had gone through the gate and into the churchyard, Cathy followed the narrow shingle path which led down the side of the church and on to a small paved area. Presently she came to a small arched doorway, leading into the nave of the church. Uncertain and nervous, Cathy pushed open the door and ventured inside. It struck dark and cold. For a moment she could not see, could not distinguish one shadowy shape from another. And then, she saw him… Father Patrick. A middle-aged man of medium height, with a shock of brown hair and an aura of tranquillity about him. He was standing before the altar, his long black robe incredibly stark against the white altar cloth.
Coming nearer on quiet footsteps, Cathy kept herself half-hidden behind the broad granite column. Her mind was in chaos. Suddenly she was afraid, her hands damp with sweat, her heartbeat so loud she was sure the sound must soon echo from every wall. Her unhappy grey eyes were involuntarily raised to the magnificent crucifix on the wall above the altar; its size and radiance were overwhelming. All manner of emotion surged through her as she looked up, silently observing the man on the cross, a man so graceful, so beautiful, tragic yet victorious, his eyes looking down on her, eyes that seemed to search deep into her soul, to smile on her, and to condemn her. In her heart Cathy reached out to him. She felt his presence. She also feared it. This was his house, his domain. She had no place here. Yet she lingered, mesmerised by those dark all-seeing eyes, overcome by the peace and harmony that was here. The conflict in her grew stronger. That same strange conflict that mingled love and hate until she had no way of separating one from the other. Suddenly she was too ashamed to stay. Disillusioned, she turned to leave.
‘Is it me you’ve come to see?’ The voice was soft, reverent. Pausing, Cathy looked over her shoulder. She was crying. ‘Ah.’ He had seen her tears. He came forward. ‘You’ve got this far, child, don’t go.’
‘I should never have come.’
Cathy surreptitiously wiped the tears with the back of her hand. It was too late for tears. It was too late for her. She turned to face him. The eyes that searched his features were not so grey, not so gentle. Inside she was beginning to harden. Beginning to despise.
‘Something brought you here,’ he insisted quietly. ‘You were troubled, you’re troubled still. Won’t you confide in me?’
Unable to look him in the eye, Cathy lowered her head. She was swamped with guilt, unsure and in pain. The struggle. Always the struggle. It was winning, she knew. That fiendish thing inside her was spreading, engulfing all that was good. Soon, she would be helpless against it. Now, Cathy. Speak now, or it will be too late! Suddenly, like a light in the darkness, the old lady’s words came back to her. ‘Trust in God.’ Cathy raised her head, meeting that kindly gaze with determination. ‘Help me,’ she whispered. The pain was intense. Crucifying.
‘If it’s in my power to help you, child, I’ll do all I can.’ In that moment the altar boy appeared from a partly concealed opening at the far end of the aisle. Cathy stiffened, preparing to leave. ‘No, it’s all right.’ Father Patrick came to her side. He smiled. ‘Mrs Jarvis will shortly have my breakfast ready,’ he told her softly. ‘You wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea, I expect?’
A moment’s hesitation, then, ‘I’d like that.’ There was an urgency in her now, a strong inexplicable urgency to get out of the church, out of his domain. He was looking down on her, watching her. Judging her. Something inside her resented that.
The priest’s study was exactly as Cathy might have imagined it… sturdy dark furniture, a spacious desk strewn with papers and all kinds of literature; behind the desk were shelves of books from floor to ceiling, lovingly tended plants on almost every surface, and two deep brown leather armchairs, one each side of a lovely old fireplace. Now, when she was seated in one and Father Patrick in the other, the tray containing tea and toast on the low table between them and the tall willowy figure of Mrs Jarvis having left the room, Father Patrick poured the tea into the pretty china cups, afterwards handing one to Cathy and leaning back into the chair, at once enjoying great gulps of the hot refreshing liquid.
‘Now then,’ he started, replacing cup and saucer on the tray. ‘We have a while yet, before I’m needed in the church.’ He quietly regarded her. In his work he had seen much distress and all kinds of pain, but rarely had he seen such suffering in the eyes of one so young. ‘I’m glad you found the courage,’ he told her now, ‘it’s never easy, I know. All too often, I’m afraid, people find it impossible to express in words what’s troubling them.’ He smiled into those desolate grey eyes. He prayed it was in his power to help her. Waiting a moment, he gave Cathy the opportunity to speak. When she deliberately averted her eyes, looking down and toying with her cup and saucer, he said softly, ‘You’re not one of my parishioners, are you?’ She shook her head. He went on, eager to draw her into a conversation, wanting only to reassure her. ‘Not that it matters whether you’re my parishioner or not. I know you must have your reasons for not going to your own priest.’ Still she did not look up. ‘We’re all men of God,’ he said, ‘but we can’t help you… I can’t help, unless you trust me.’
His words touched a chord. ‘Trust me… trust in God.’ When she spoke now, it was in a voice so low and tremulous that he could hardly hear her. ‘I’m so afraid, Father.’ Summoning all her strength to suppress the rising contempt, she looked up, meeting his quizzical gaze with renewed confidence. He had to know! She must tell him everything, or lose Matt. Matt was her love, her life. She would not want to live without him. ‘I’m afraid, Father.’ Her voice was stronger. She was stronger.
‘What is it you’re afraid of?’
Cathy considered his question. What was it that she was afraid of? How could she describe the turmoil inside her?… The way her love was slowly being eroded? The insane unpredictable urge to kill her own husband? The nightmares that spilled into her waking hours? The hatred? The wicked and terrifying moods that invaded her body and soul? How in God’s name could she begin to explain? Suddenly she wanted to laugh in his face. The fool! How could he ever hope to understand? A cold hand squeezed her heart. Chilling merciless fingers. She shivered. Already her mood was darkening. Now, when she stared at Father Patrick, the stricken grey eyes were streaked with black. ‘Fight it!’ The old lady knew. Cathy had sensed it, seen it in that aged face. Fight it or die!
‘Let me help you, child.’
‘Is there such a thing as… being possessed?’ The question startled even her.
Father Patrick made a small discreet sign of the cross on himself. ‘What do you mean? What makes you ask such a thing?’
‘I love him, Father and – God help me – I don’t want to hurt him… Matt, my husband.’ Fear was coursing through her now, fear… and an overwhelming sensation of excitement. Quickly! Hurry, Cathy! ‘Sometimes I want to kill him with my bare hands. I hate him so much.’ She could feel that hatred now, boiling inside her. ‘The voices are never far away.’ She was agitated, the words tripping one over the other in her haste to tell. Restless beneath his shocked stare, drawn to the quiet beauty of his sapphire blue eyes, she went on. ‘The nightmares are worse,’ she confessed, springing to her feet and going to the window. She stared out. The storm clouds were gathering, the morning was dark as night. There was a fury in her.
‘What kind of nightmares?’
‘Frightening… full of evil things. They won’t let me be.’ Her voice was quivering. She was breathless, her emotions in turmoil. Tell him everything. EVERYTHING! ‘There’s a terrible compulsion to destroy… destroy my husband… us. Everything that’s good.’
He looked at her, then looked away when his gaze seemed to disturb her. ‘Have you told your husband these things?’
‘No.’ She resented his question. Irritated, she came away from the window, pacing up and down behind him. ‘I’ve told no one. They wouldn’t understand. You don’t understand!’ She laughed, a soft unlovely sound. When he looked round in surprise, she was standing with her back to the wall, her head bent forward. She was softly crying.
Deeply moved, he went to her, his long fine fingers stroking her hair, his manner quietly persuasive, coaxing, in the way a father might coax his child. ‘You mustn’t punish yourself,’ he told her gently. She kept her head down, but lifted her gaze. He gasped, shocked by the animosity in her coal-black eyes. He would have slid his fingers from her hair, but she reached up to entwine them in her own. It was then that he sensed the primeval badness in her. An evil so powerful it shook him to the core. She smiled, raising her face to his. He had never seen such dark wicked beauty. It was strange to him, uniquely fascinating. Her black limpid eyes never flinched, smiling into his, reaching down, touching not the priest… but the man, for he had been first the man and then the priest.
He was galvanised, fascinated, all his primordial senses quickened to agonising delight. So often when he was barely a man, temptation had come to him, and like any young reckless youth he had succumbed, tasting the wine, bedding the women, living each day as though it was his last. Tearing at life like a starving man, his appetite had been insatiable. But that was another day, another time. Ashamed and repentant, he had found his true vocation. And yet, the youth was still himself. He could never change that. The memories were always there and the shame. Sometimes the longing, too, was never far away. But that was his penance. In his every prayer, and through his every waking hour, he had long sought to exorcise the wasteful sins of his youth; to purge his soul of all that would have destroyed it.
He had not succeeded. He never would, for a man’s soul was many things, each being an integral part of that man. He was a priest, a man of God. He wore the long black robe and he led the congregation in prayer. He buried the old and baptised the new, he married the lovers, and was confessor to the sinners. Yet, through all of that, he was still a man, the same man, weak and alive with passion. For so long, he had channelled that ‘passion’ into his
work, into his beliefs and towards his salvation. Now, though, when he looked into those burning dark eyes, passion was the master. She knew. She had seen the weakness in his armour. She was calling him, murmuring, awakening the deepest longing in him. He tried so hard, so very hard to resist the temptation, but then the Devil was cunning and pleasures of the flesh so sweet.
Her fingers moved deftly until, now, he could feel her nakedness against his lower body. He was drowning. Drowning. Many hands embraced him, pulling him down, lapping over him, gently rocking him back and forth. Such pleasure. Now, the ocean was stormy, frenzied, finally exploding through him. Taking his soul. Exhausted, shamed, he softly moaned, his mouth against hers. Exquisite. Destructive. It was over. Too late. Laughing, she pulled away, her black eyes victorious. Her footsteps across the room were like the pad of a cat. He heard the door close. The ensuing bitter moments seemed endless. After a while he went to the window, looking out, bitterly remorseful. When his stricken eyes met with those of the old man coming from the churchyard, his shame was overwhelming.
Cathy had lost track of time. Now, her senses quickened and she realised she was on the embankment. She could not recall driving into Bedford, nor parking her car opposite the footbridge. Groaning, she straightened herself in the seat and released her safety belt. Glancing at the dashboard clock, she was taken aback to see that it was midday and the whole morning was gone. But where? Where had the hours gone? A strange quintessence enveloped her, a lingering exhilaration. And yet it was tinged with dread. In that first rush of awareness when she had emerged from sleep, there was only a quiet, comforting void. Now, the fear was creeping up, infiltrating every corner of her mind. The pain was physical, yet not excruciating like before… like before… like before!
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