Father Gilbert and Father Benson instinctively took a step towards the altar.
“Stop!” Mary shouted at them without conviction, her expression one of confusion. But she had the pistol and was still training it on the two priests.
They stopped.
“David, think about what you’re doing,” Father Gilbert said urgently.
“We need him alive, remember?” Mary said, her voice shrill. “The police won’t believe he did all of this if he’s dead.”
Todd tipped his head to one side, the look of you stupid woman written on his face. “And what about these two? You think they want to play along?”
“What are you thinking: a couple of murders, ending with a suicide?” Father Gilbert asked. “Who gets to experience which?”
Todd gazed at Father Gilbert with a look of visceral hatred. Then he turned and raised the sword over Alex Wilton.
“It’s not too late to choose,” Father Gilbert said. “Whatever deal you think you made, you don’t have to keep it.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ll only be cheating the greatest liar of all liars,” he said.
Todd muttered something, then brought the sword-point down, stabbing into Wilton’s stomach. Mary shrieked, but kept the gun firmly trained on the two priests.
Father Gilbert’s body tensed. The pain in his head intensified. Benson whimpered.
Todd lifted the sword again and began to whisper softly to himself.
A rivulet of blood flowed from Wilton, lined the edge of the altar, and dripped to the floor.
“Todd, stop!” Benson begged. “He’ll bleed to death!”
“As priests, you must understand the importance of blood in the ceremony,” Todd said as he brought the sword down again, near the place of the first wound.
Mary cried, “David!” The colour had gone from her face.
“We have to do something!” Benson said through clenched teeth.
Father Gilbert’s eyes darted back and forth between Todd and Mary. Mary’s finger was on the trigger. If he grabbed for it, she’d fire. And Todd would use the sword – with great skill, he suspected.
Todd turned around to face them. He held the sword in his left hand and moved towards the priest. The point hovered a few inches from Father Gilbert’s chest.
Mary took a step back.
Todd reached out to her with his right hand. “Give me the gun,” he said.
“Don’t do it, Mary,” Father Gilbert said. “Whatever plan you had is gone. Don’t you see? If he doesn’t kill you, you can be sure he’s planted enough evidence to make it look as if you acted alone. He’s thought it all through.”
Mary let out a small sob.
The point of the sword touched Father Gilbert’s shirt. “We know you well, Father. We’ll delight in having our way with you.”
Father Gilbert felt a wave of nausea at the sound. Again, the voice wasn’t Todd’s. “Tell me who you are,” he said. His mind went to the Rite of Exorcism. “In the name of Christ, say your name.”
“You know it already,” Todd said. He said harshly, “Give me the gun, Mary.”
“Don’t,” Father Gilbert said to her.
“Shut up.” Todd drew the sword back and then quickly thrust forward.
Father Gilbert acted instinctively, swinging his right forearm up to knock the blade aside. The edge was sharper than he’d imagined. It sliced the top of his arm through his clerical shirt. The metal rang out as the sword hit a nearby pillar.
Father Gilbert then brought his left fist around, punching Todd in the temple.
Todd staggered only a couple of steps while attempting a broad swipe with the sword.
Father Gilbert pushed Benson out of the way towards Mary and dodged the sword. The blade caught him in the right side. A slicing pain, followed by a cold sensation, raced through him. He clutched at his wound and fell back against the pillar.
Mary screamed. Benson shouted.
Todd regained his footing and brought the sword up to a more decisive position.
The pistol went off with a deafening explosion. All sound was instantly absorbed into a black hole of nothingness.
Todd’s face contorted. He stumbled sideways.
Mary stood with an expression of surprise as if the pistol had gone off on its own.
Todd staggered, then spun, swinging the sword around towards Mary.
She fired again.
Father Gilbert imagined being hit by a stray bullet or stabbed by a wild swipe with the sword. He launched himself at Benson, hoping to knock them both to the floor. Benson fell towards the stairs. Father Gilbert hit the stone floor. Every nerve in his body screamed at him. His eyes went to Todd, who was now lurching to one side from the impact of the second bullet. The arc of the sword continued unabated, the blade slicing into Mary’s hip.
She screamed and fell, pulling the trigger again and again and again.
Todd roared, though it was now a muffled sound amidst the high-pitched ringing in Father Gilbert’s ears. There was a clatter as the sword fell to the floor. Then Todd was down.
Benson scrambled over to Father Gilbert. A cotton-wool voice kept asking if he was all right.
“Call for help,” Father Gilbert said. The ringing was like a scream. Then he realized it was Mary. “Pressure – on her wound.”
Benson pressed a cloth into Father Gilbert’s hand, then moved to Mary.
Father Gilbert fumbled to find the wound. His arm was bleeding. So was his side. He was about to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, but he saw he had another cloth in his hand.
The scene went into a spiral. Shock, he thought. He leaned back against the pillar, the stone cold against his upper back. He fought to stay conscious. He thought of the amount of blood now spilling all over Mr Urquhart’s floor.
Alex. He had to help Alex.
He pushed himself to his feet. His legs wouldn’t cooperate. Shifting his head, his gaze went to David Todd. Was he still alive? There was no knowing how many of Mary’s bullets had struck him. He was lying on his side, facing Father Gilbert. His eyes were closed.
Father Gilbert began to pray under his breath as he fought to stand up, but couldn’t.
Suddenly Todd’s eyes flew open. At first, they were unfixed and then they locked on Father Gilbert. He smiled. His teeth were red with blood. He licked his lips.
Legion, this demon had once called itself. Father Gilbert had encountered it more than he cared to remember. He continued to pray in a whisper.
With unexpected strength, Todd pushed himself up.
Father Gilbert wanted to warn Benson. He could hear the priest talking – over near Mary, who let out random cries of pain. He tried to shout a warning, but nothing came out.
Todd dragged himself up, his eyes darting from Father Gilbert to Benson and back again.
Father Gilbert said, “Father—!” but it was lost in one of Mary’s screams.
Todd was on his feet now. He tilted his head at Father Gilbert, put a finger to his lips, and stumbled off towards the tunnel in the wall.
Father Gilbert couldn’t bear to see Todd escape. With great effort, he got to his feet. His side throbbed, each pulse like being stabbed again and again. Taking a step, he realized his feet were bare. Where are my shoes and socks?
He turned his head to Father Benson. The curate was now at the altar, attending to Wilton. Mary still lay on the floor, holding a cloth to her hip.
He forced himself to the opening of the passage. He glanced back and caught sight of Wilton. The blood had soaked the shirt covering the man’s stomach. Benson was now attempting to stop the flow of blood. He shouted into a mobile phone, which was pressed between his ear and hunched shoulder.
He must have a better service provider than I do, Father Gilbert thought.
A howl echoed down the tunnel. The priest chased after it.
CHAPTER 41
Father Gilbert half-staggered, half-ran through the tunnel in a painful slouch. The downward
slant of it propelled him forward. His hands scraped against rough concrete and his bare feet kicked at puddles of water. Sharp stones stabbed into his soles.
A voice echoed from somewhere ahead – with blasphemous swearing and animal-like grunts.
He eventually came to an opening, with a square grate hanging open. It was covered with ivy. A step of about three feet led down to a section of Mr Urquhart’s gardening. He jumped it, the jolt sending reverberations of pain to every nerve and synapse. He took a few steps forward and then fell into damp grass. He was so very tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. But he got onto all fours and began to crawl.
An upward slope brought him to the graveyard. He looked back at the church. The doorway to the tunnel was part of a cement decoration on the rear of the building. It looked like a memorial stone. Few would notice it.
He looked ahead. The full moon cast a blue light on the headstones and statues. A gentle breeze taunted the leaves and branches in the trees overhead. Shadows moved and all of his childhood fears rose up. The graveyard had come alive. Beasts waited behind every stone, hands were about to claw up through the dirt of each grave.
Courage. This is consecrated ground, he reminded himself and began to whisper, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
One shadow took form, lurching from one grave to another, using the headstones as support. It fell to its knees at one point and raised its head up to the full moon and shrieked. Father Gilbert’s blood turned to ice. Dogs barked in the distance. Then the shadow was on its feet and moving again, taking the shape of David Todd.
Father Gilbert pressed his hand against his side and it occurred to him now that he was either delirious or a fool for chasing Todd. Let the police find him later. How far could he get with so many bullet wounds? But he knew it wasn’t Todd he was chasing. It was the thing inside Todd that had to be dealt with.
With more strength than he thought he had, he got up. He drove himself onward, the sound of his breathing in his ears. His head felt like he’d stuck it in a tumble dryer. He could feel his heart beating against his ribcage. The wound in his side seemed to be tearing apart.
A wrought-iron fence circled this part of the graveyard; the gate was at the far end to his right. He assumed Todd was heading for that. He fell to his knees again on the slick grass, scraping his forehead against the side of a headstone.
“God, help me,” he whispered. He tried to remember where he’d left off with the Lord’s Prayer.
An angry snarl sounded ahead of him. He moved for it.
Rounding a large crypt, Father Gilbert saw Todd struggling at the wrought-iron fence. It was six feet high, the top of each iron post shaped like the point of a spear. Todd was pulling himself up to climb over.
That’s a stupid thing to do, Father Gilbert thought. Had Todd followed the fence in either direction, he could have easily found an escape. Todd knew that. But there he was, hoisting himself up.
“Todd!” Father Gilbert shouted.
Todd’s head turned slightly, as if to confirm he’d heard a voice. Then he jerked himself up with greater determination. His upper body was poised over the fence. He kicked his feet, trying to catch them on something that would give him leverage. He reached for a branch from a tree, planted on the other side of the fence. Even if he had been in the best physical condition, he couldn’t have succeeded in this effort.
Father Gilbert moved unsteadily towards him. He had no idea what he thought he’d do.
Todd grabbed the branch, but his weight caused it to swing back. He turned with it, facing Father Gilbert now, and then lost his grip. He fell onto the fence, the sharp points of the posts stabbing upwards through his upper arms and shoulders. He swore as he squirmed and thrashed. The weight of his body pulled him down, pushing the points further up. Then he stopped and simply hung there, like a puppet that had lost its strings. He looked at Father Gilbert. Then he laughed with a noise void of any humour, filled instead with a terrible brutality.
The pain in Father Gilbert’s side intensified.
Todd swung his forearms playfully. “Well, now. Look at this.”
Father Gilbert did.
“Remind you of anything?” he asked and laughed again as he stretched his forearms as wide as they could go. “Do you need a clue?” He went into a simpering voice: “Oh, why have you forsaken me?” He laughed again.
Father Gilbert prayed against the blasphemy.
Todd swung himself from side to side as if he might dislodge himself. He fumed, “Vile, weak bodies.” A trickle of blood slipped from the side of his mouth to his chin.
“David—” Father Gilbert said and reached for him.
Todd swore with such violence that the priest stopped where he was. The voice was a harsh rasp of blood, spit, and dirt. “Todd is dead,” he said.
Father Gilbert thought of the rules of exorcism. Don’t engage with the demon was one of the first. He fell to his knees and said, “In the name of Jesus Christ, depart for the place appointed for you.”
“I should have picked a more suitable partner. Todd was useless.” The eyes went to Father Gilbert’s. “You are meant to be mine. My prize.”
The horror felt like ice-cold claws wrapping around Gilbert’s heart. He fell back against a tombstone. He whispered, “In the name of Christ—”
A gurgle came from the depths of Todd’s throat. He coughed. “Just say the word, Gilbert. You can hardly imagine the wonderful things we could do together. Let me out of here so I can come to you.”
Father Gilbert felt movement around him. He looked down. The grass came alive. Every blade had become a squirming maggot.
He was too weak to move. “No,” he gasped.
“Not all temptations are lies,” Todd said. “There can be delicious and satisfying pleasures. Think about it.”
He saw in his mind Mary Aston, beautiful, coming to him for a naked embrace, her body perfection, and their unity explosive. He sobbed.
Todd licked his bloody lips and smiled. “I can give you whatever you desire, Gilbert. You know being a priest is a burden you weren’t meant to bear. You’re not even good at it. The corruption of your heart will always get in the way.”
“God have mercy,” Father Gilbert said as a plea.
“Listen to me!”
“Christ have mercy.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“God have mercy.”
“You’re meant for so much more!”
Father Gilbert couldn’t think. He couldn’t remember what to do. So he recited the only thing he could think of – his baptismal vows. “My friend, my Saviour, my God, Jesus Christ, stands at the threshold of my soul…”
“It’s a waste of time. You’re a second-rate priest, a third-rate Christian.”
“I renounce Satan and all his works and all his pomp.”
Todd lifted his head and shrieked, an inhuman noise.
“I believe that there is only one God, the Creator, Preserver, and Ruler of all things and the Father of all men.”
Todd’s shrieking seemed to fill every crevice and fracture in the graveyard. He squirmed, jerking wildly against his impaled arms.
“I believe that this our God and Father is a just judge, who rewards the good and punishes the wicked.”
The shrieking stopped and Todd went still, his eyes on Father Gilbert. “I’ll see you again,” he said with a savage sneer. “Your wound will remind you.”
The sneer remained as Todd’s head drifted upwards, his eyes rolling back, the whites illuminated by the moon. He went limp and then his head slumped forward.
Father Gilbert fell over, his head falling gently on a cushion of grass.
He wondered if anyone would find him before he bled to death.
He was startled to feel a hand caressing his hair. He looked up. A young boy, maybe ten years old, with a pale face and jet-black hair, kneeled next to him. The boy smiled sadly, as if he understood the pain and confusion Father Gilbert was experiencing.
“Plea
se, get help,” Father Gilbert whispered.
The boy stood up, nodded, and walked away. His clothes were odd – a dark suit from some other time. Turning back, the boy held up his hand as if to say wait.
Father Gilbert closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 42
He was confused. He was aware of being jostled onto a stretcher and carried out of the crypt of the church. He didn’t remember how he’d returned there. He wanted to ask, but an oxygen mask kept his mouth shut.
Four stretchers. One death.
Father Benson hovered over him in the ambulance. “Do you believe that in one God there are three Divine Persons – God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost?”
“I do.” Why was Father Benson going through the Last Rites?
“Do you believe that the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity, Jesus Christ, was made man, was conceived of the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried, descended into hell, and on the third day rose again from the dead, ascended into heaven, sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty, and from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe that the Third Person of the Blessed Trinity, God the Holy Ghost, enables us to live and accomplish what is right and just, and that without His grace no one can be saved?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe in and openly profess the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?”
“I do.”
“If you have firmly resolved to live in accordance with the holy doctrine of Christ, ever to remain faithful to His Church, to avoid sin, to love God with your whole heart, and your neighbour as yourself, declare now this your will, and promise in the presence of the All-seeing God…”
* * *
He heard a burst of static as a doctor was paged on an intercom system. The smell of disinfectant, an electronic beep, an ache in his right arm, and a soft touch on his left hand registered somewhere in his consciousness. Then he opened his eyes. Pale green walls and fluorescent lights came to him. He saw a soundless television – a talk show with a slick host and an overexcited audience. And then, as his gaze drifted down, there was Father Benson sitting in a chair, reading a magazine. He touched his dry tongue against his dry lips and winced at the metal taste in his mouth.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 30