by Stina Leicht
“Please, Dominic,” Father Murray said, “put the knife away.” He was so close now he was practically standing on Liam’s toes. “I won’t allow this. You know I won’t. I can’t.”
Father Christopher folded his arms across his chest and frowned.
“If you continue, I will send in a report,” Father Murray said. “And neither you nor the Prelate will like the resulting inquiry.”
Sighing, Father Dominic’s shoulders slumped. “Get him out of here.”
“Come on, Liam.” Father Murray tugged at Liam’s arm.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain everything,” Father Murray said. “First, let’s let them do what they must.”
Crouching, Father Christopher reached into a pocket and produced a clear vial. He uncorked it and muttered something that sounded like Latin as he poured the contents on the dead man’s head. Steam rose off the body.
Liam allowed Father Murray to pull him away. Priests were killing people in the streets. Priests. And Father Murray wasn’t doing anything to stop it, but then, what could he do? “I thought they were attacking you.”
“That’s all right. I understand, but you needn’t have worried. I had everything under control,” Father Murray said. “For now, I want you to go back inside. We’ll discuss this in detail tomorrow. Don’t tell Mary Kate, whatever you do. It will only upset her.”
“I won’t,” Liam said. “Father?”
“Yes?”
“What did he mean when he said that man wasn’t a man any more than I was?” They know about us. They’ll come for us. We should’ve killed them. Liam shook his head to dislodge the monster’s warnings.
Father Murray cast a glance over his shoulder. “Overzealousness is a danger in any policing force.”
“Father Dominic and Father Christopher are Peelers?”
“Of a sort, yes.”
They stopped in front of The Harp and Drum. Electric guitar music wailed its way up from the underground nightclub. It was a good rendition of Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock.” Liam shivered inside his coat. “Why did you let them kill that man?”
“Just go inside,” Father Murray said with a pained expression. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Liam nodded, checking the empty street for trouble. “Be careful, Father. You should keep a little something with you. To protect yourself. Those two—”
“I’ll be fine, Liam. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Father.”
Trotting halfway down the steps, Liam turned to watch Father Murray go. He tugged up the collar on his coat and walked down the street, a lone man in the darkness. Liam sighed and then re-entered the club. He found Mary Kate was still at the table and this time she was alone.
“You were gone for a while,” she said.
He nodded. “Had a talk with Father Murray.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “But you know, I’ve a problem.”
“You do?”
“You see, this very attractive man made a particularly lewd suggestion. Something I’m sure my mother wouldn’t approve of one bit,” she said. “But I’ve been sitting here thinking about whether or not I’d take him up on his offer anyway. I’ve had two shorts, after all. Trouble is—” She showed him her glass. It was empty. “He up and vanished on me. I’m here all alone. I don’t suppose you’re interested in finishing off where he started?”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “His loss is my gain.”
“Strange, that was my very thought.”
He went back to the bar, reassured by the return to normalcy, ordered two more shorts and got serious about seducing his wife. The band got better as they played and finished the set an hour later. Then he and Mary Kate staggered home together. He tried not to think about the two priests, and what they might or might not know about the beast living inside him. More than anything, he wanted to feel normal. He took Mary Kate’s hand, and kissed it. If anyone made him feel sound, it was her—even if things had been a bit rocky of late. She didn’t treat him as if he were a dangerous creature. She wasn’t afraid of him. She trusted him, even believed in him. She stopped, got up on her toes, placed a hand on the front of his jeans and gave him a great scorcher of a kiss. That was enough to banish any unwanted specters of guilt, and gave him high hopes for a most interesting end to the evening, but the moment they entered their flat she headed directly to the washroom.
“Do you really have to do that now?”
“Yes,” she said, slurring the word. “Def-definitely.”
“You’re going to tell me that you spent half the night giving me a hard-on the likes of which I’ve not had in a week, and you didn’t check before we left?”
She placed the thermometer under her tongue and winked.
“You’re fucking evil, you are,” he said. “I should never have married you.”
Putting her hands over her ears, she shut her eyes and hummed out of key. He went to the kitchen and found the whiskey they saved for special occasions. He supposed not being killed by a Peeler-priest was occasion enough and poured himself a glass. Then he went back to the washroom. She was squinting at the little mercury line. Ever since she’d gotten sick the thermometer had become an obsession—twice a day, every day, she took her temperature. He was beginning to really hate the damned thing.
“Well?”
A sly smile crept onto her face. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”
“Why do you do this to me every time?” Liam asked. “Why can’t we do things like we used to?”
“T-told you,” she said. “I’m not getting preg—”She hiccupped.“—pregnant until I’m through Uni.”
He sighed. “Couldn’t we risk it the once? Please?”
“No.”
“Fine. Well? Is it to be the headache or not?”
She bent over the sink and tilted the thermometer into the light with exaggerated care. Her short skirt rode up on her hips, giving him a nice view. It was then he noticed she wasn’t wearing any underpants. That was his Mary Kate — freezing cold outside and there she was. No pants. Because she knew exactly what that did to him.
He tossed back the last of the whiskey and set the glass down. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you please—”
She turned to face him with a knowing smile. “Will I please what?”
“Give me that damned thing. I’m going to fucking break it.”
“No!” She jerked the thermometer away, laughing. He tried to get it from her, but drunk as she was the lithe minx somehow managed to keep it just out of his reach.
He tried another tactic and faked a grab for the offending glass wand and then threw his arms around her. “Got you now.” Picking her up, he carried her out of the washroom and then threw her onto the bed. It was a short toss as the end of the mattress wasn’t all that far from the bedroom door.
“Stay-stay back,” she said, holding up the thermometer as if it were some sort of talisman. “Foul fiend.”
“Ah, well. That’s where you’ve gone wrong,” he said, kicking off his boots. “Saw ‘Dance of the Vampires’ once, I did. Turns out I have to believe in order for it to work. And if there’s one fucking thing I don’t believe in, it’s that.”
“Shite.”
He dove for her.
As it turned out she didn’t have a headache after all.
“Have you ever seen something you’re certain couldn’t possibly exist?” Father Murray asked.
Liam blinked. They were in the The Harp and Drum—only this time in the pub proper. There weren’t many people around. It was in the middle of the day, and Liam was taking a short break for a few pints and some chips before the evening rush of fares. “Honestly?”
Father Murray nodded. “You’ve no need to worry. I’ll not think you mad.”
Gazing out the bull’s eye pane at a watery version of West Belfast, Liam’s thoughts wandered back to the times when he was sure he’d hallucinated—the day he was first arrested, the Kesh, that day
when the thirteen died. He sighed. “Aye, I have.”
“May I ask what it was?”
Liam decided to start with the least troublesome of the lot—not that he’d have talked about the Kesh. He’d never even told Mary Kate about that, and he had every intention of dying before ever speaking of it. “I saw a Para with teeth filed to points.”
It was Father Murray’s turn to blink in surprise.
“Saw him twice. The first time he wasn’t a Para. Was in the crowd when I was arrested on Aggro Corner. The second time he said something mad and then fair stove my head in.”
Father Murray frowned. “Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“What did he say to you?”
“I don’t exactly remember. Something about the mac Cumhaill. Didn’t make any fucking sense at all. To tell you the truth, I half-believed I didn’t remember it rightly because he cracked my damned skull.”
“Are you sure? Fionn mac Cumhaill? Mythical leader of the Fianna? Caught and ate the salmon of knowledge? Had two nephews that were turned into hounds by a vengeful fairy Queen?”
“Sceolán and—”
“Bran.” Father Murray blinked and swallowed.
Liam shrugged. “I know what it sounds like.” He hadn’t put that together before. He knew the stories because his Aunt Sheila used to tell them to him. Had it been her way of hinting at his real father’s name? Or was it something else? Did the whole family know all along, and him the only one who didn’t? He’d searched the phone directories when he’d returned to Derry back in February. There was no Bran Monroe listed anywhere. Then came the training and the wedding and what with one thing or another, he hadn’t thought of his real father in months. Either the man had no phone or was dead—most likely dead.
But why had both his mother and his Aunt used fairy stories to tell him about his father?
If that’s what Aunt Sheila was doing at all. “You must think me mad,” Liam said.
“That’s all right. I asked, didn’t I?” Father Murray sat in silence for a few minutes. He seemed disturbed, and it frightened Liam. Then Father Murray took a deep breath. “Do you remember when I told you about my Mary?”
“Your fiancée?”
“Yes,” Father Murray said. “I saw something that night. Something the constables didn’t believe. They insisted that I’d been drunk which only made matters worse.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
Father Murray shook his head. “We were out for a walk, she and I. We’d just had dinner with my mother. It was a fine night, and I had her hand in mine. Then I saw this man standing in the walk. He was large and looked like he had a hump on his back.”
Confused, Liam nodded anyway.
“He attacked me. He came right at me with these… these claws.”
He knows, Liam thought and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He fished the lighter from his pocket and squeezed it with all his might under the table where Father Murray couldn’t see. What the fuck am I going to do? Either I’m mad, or I’m cursed. Either way, will he let Father Dominic kill me?
“She screamed and threw herself in front of me. I couldn’t stop her. It hit her instead. People came running, but before they did—” Father Murray sipped from his pint and whispered, “The creature sprouted giant wings and flew away.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a long charcoal black feather. “I didn’t imagine it, Liam. And I wasn’t drunk. If you want to know why I became a Jesuit, this is it.”
Liam felt his mouth drop open. Reaching out with a finger, he stroked the feather’s ragged vane and shuddered.
“That man last night,” Father Murray kept his voice low. “He was a fallen angel. A demon. Dominic, Christopher and myself, we’re members of the same Order. It exists to protect humanity from the Fallen. We fight in secret so that humanity can live without fear. Every one of us has lost someone. You’ll have to forgive Dominic—”
“Fight, you said. You fight?”
Father Murray looked away. “In my own way. Yes.”
“Father Dominic, he thinks I’m one of those…things?” Liam had trouble speaking the question. Experiment, he thought, Father Dominic mentioned an experiment.
“You’re not. I know you’re not. I’ve been watching you for years, Liam.”
“Because you thought I was a—a Fallen?” He wanted to ask more but was terrified of the answers he’d get. If he were perfectly honest, he didn’t want to know about the monster living under his skin—not any more than he already did, and he certainly didn’t want Father Murray to know if he didn’t already.
“You’ve no need to worry.” Father Murray took another sip from his pint glass.
Liam tried not to show his relief.
“Father Dominic is very devoted to the Order, but he’s been at war for a very long time,” Father Murray said. “I’m afraid he sees enemies where they don’t exist.” He took the feather from the table and tucked it back inside his
coat. “I’d consider it a great favor if you didn’t tell anyone about this.” “It’s not like anyone would believe me, would they?” “The Order goes to some lengths to remain a secret. I’ve risked much in telling you what I have.”
“You can trust me, Father.”
“I knew I could.”
Chapter 14
Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
September 1975
“Joseph, would you mind explaining what exactly you had in mind when you interfered with one of our field units?” Father Thomas asked, entering St. Agnes’s parochial house. He closed his umbrella and shook out the excess water on the doorstep. He was an overweight man with piercing brown eyes and a large nose. As Bishop Avery’s assistant, he was efficient and an excellent ally. He was also Father Murray’s direct supervisor within the Order.
Accepting Father Thomas’s hat and coat, Father Murray said, “It couldn’t be helped.”
Father Thomas arched a heavy eyebrow.
“Please, come into the sitting room. Have some tea. Let me explain,” Father Murray said.
After assuring that the sitting room door was closed and the tea was satisfactory, Father Murray settled in one of the wing-backed chairs and prepared himself for what would come next.
“We can’t bicker amongst ourselves, Joseph. We simply can’t afford it.”
Father Murray said, “I didn’t intend to cause a disagreement. But they’d made a mistake in their intended target.”
“Your pet project?”
“He’s a peaceful lad.”
“He’s been imprisoned twice for rioting, is the probable cause of a death of one prison guard—”
“That was an attack by a rabid guard dog. You saw the report. The stories were proven to be only rumors. He had nothing to do with—”
“—and is now a member of an association with a decidedly Republican slant.”
“He married into a Nationalist family. There’s no crime in that. He’s not involved in politics. He’s non-violent,” Father Murray said. “He understands right from wrong—even loyalty. He’s not like the other children of the Fallen. Surely, Bishop Avery sees that?”
“Non-violent? He threatened Father Dominic with a club.”
“He thought I was in danger. He put it down when I told him to do so.”
Father Thomas took a sip of his tea and set down the cup. “Your position isn’t popular among the Order.”
“We must be certain of what we’re doing. There are lives at stake.”
“My point exactly. Human lives.”
Father Murray sighed. “I understand my reputation among the Order—”
“Your loyalty and service aren’t in question,” Father Thomas said. “You’ve completed many difficult assignments in less than ideal situations and maintained your reason. Few can say that. However, some say this is the very thing that is affecting your judgment. You’re too close to your subject.”
“Compassion is what Christ—”
“This a war, Joseph.”
“All the more reason to take care.”
Father Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “I will tell the others to keep their distance and let you do what you must. But no more threats. The Bishop won’t tolerate the development of factions. Do you understand me?”
Staring into his cup, Father Murray nodded. “I want permission for another contact.”
“What?”
“I’ve reason to believe it will be low risk.”
Father Thomas gave him a worried look. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”
“Please. It’s the next necessary step. He’s already made contact once—”
“You’ve never reported—”
“I did. Years ago. It wasn’t a direct contact, but close enough that I feel this is a good risk.”
“Why now?”
“I received information yesterday that confirms there may be factions among the Fallen,” Father Murray said. “We can take advantage of this situation. We both know we need every advantage we can get. Think of the intelligence opportunities alone.”
Father Thomas sipped his tea. “Very well. Where?”
“Derry.”
“I’ll inform the bishop. But that report will have to be on my desk the day after your return, and you will take precautions. Do you understand?”
Father Murray nodded. “Thank you.”
“If anything goes wrong you will terminate the contact, or call in the nearest field unit. No more dithering. Do you hear me?”
“Hello? Is Mrs. Kelly there?” Father Murray asked, speaking into the telephone. It was located in the hallway next to the room Father Andrew used as a study. It wasn’t the most ideal situation for a delicate conversation, but luckily, no one else was home at the moment.
“Ma is here, but she can’t come to talk to you,” said the young female voice on the other end of the line. “She’s in the bog.”
A voice shouted in the background. “Moira!”
“Hello, Moira,” Father Murray said and attempted to keep the laughter from his voice. “This is Father Murray. Perhaps I should ring back.”
There was a clatter as he assumed the receiver was dropped. “Ma! ’Tis Father Murray!”