by Alex Connor
‘Are his paintings valuable?’
The old priest nodded. ‘Of course! And rare. He’s highly collectable. Sought after by connoisseurs and galleries everywhere.’
‘So the art world would be interested in anything to do with Hieronymus Bosch?’
‘Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?’
Nicholas stared at the old man. ‘You were always a fan of his.’
‘I studied History of Art before I entered the Church. You know that, and that’s why you’re picking my brains now. Hieronymus Bosch has always fascinated me. He was a great religious painter.’
‘You preached his vision of Hell often enough—’
‘It was important in the Middle Ages for people to be scared away from sin,’ the priest retorted. ‘Bosch served a purpose. He warned the congregation of what would happen if they turned from God. He painted images that everyone could understand. He was a visionary.’
Nicholas toyed with the heavy chain in his hands, as the priest watched him.
‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ Father Michael said at last. ‘You never brought anything but trouble. We were glad to be rid of you. Things have been quiet for the last ten years. Until …’ He paused and Nicholas picked up on his hesitation.
‘Until what?’
The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside the church only days before.
‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’
The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host at Mass …
Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the church.
It had been an unholy sin.
The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left, shouting at the top of his lungs, whiteskinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman … But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest thought uneasily. A murderer?
‘What is it?’
His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’
OUT NOW
www.quercusbooks.co.uk