The Summer of ’87 and ’88 were some of the best of his young life and later, when he reflected on those days, he realised they were some of the best of his entire life. Cleverley, Lewis and two slightly younger boys, twin brothers called Manny and Ray enjoyed the freedom to explore in those days, a sense of wonder and adventure never quite captured again as adults. Long evenings with a patient sun were filled with tramping through fields, playing hide and seek and discovering new places. Once, they spotted a rag pile of clothes but closer inspection showed it to be a dead lamb, an up-close and personal science class that was infinitely more interesting than the dry school lectures.
Tighe was fearless and broke off a stick from a nearby tree poking the rotted body in the hollowed out ribcage, ribs looping up and over like fingers steepled together. The lamb was mottled with hungry flies shearing the tissue from clean bones, covering the innards like a black sleek skin. The boy prodded the centre of it, displacing a few which reluctantly made way before crowding around again.
The other boys watched in amazement as suddenly Tighe hoisted the whole lot, catching the stick in a bony joint. The skeleton was wrapped in a rag which had been the animal’s wool coat and he managed to lift it gently off the ground. The boys, sensing what was coming next were too quick for him with Tighe holding it in front of him like a sword charging from the battle lines and let out a war cry. They collapsed soon after when the coating of bloated bluebottles either through surprise or the malaise that accompanies a heavy feed suddenly dropped off the stick, swarming the boy in a stinking black speckled cloud.
Throwing the stick and its carcass to one side, the boy hopped up and down and flapped his arms for all the world looking like he was trying to take flight. Finally, and once he was free of the flies, all the boys collapsed together on the heath and burst into a fit of giggles far away from the buzz.
That was also the summer when Cleverley had fallen from a tree hut, which in reality was just a forked thick branch where he could dangle his legs and lean back on the hard tree trunk. He had taken one of his mother’s old cushions and taped it around the thick branch with sticky tape. In the evenings as the sun sank, Cleverley would carve open slots on the bark and found that the pockets were tight enough for him to store several items, like pens, Pokémon Pogs and Wrestling profile cards, duplicates like Hulk Hogan that he didn't mind losing. The woodlice whose houses he had desecrated were surprised to see him through their little windows and soon scattered under his handiwork seeking shelter from the busy penknife.
He was ten feet off the ground, a fact he was able to confirm easily by marking his height against the bark and then doubling it. The lower branches were easy to access with a hollow in the tree trunk which allowed him to wedge a foot in and reach up. There he would sit as the sun dropped behind the trees, waiting for the call from his mother to signal it was dinner time. It really was the perfect hiding spot as his small body merged into the dark shadows, visible only to those who knew where to look.
Several days passed until his enthusiasm for sharing his tree hut couldn't be contained any longer. He invited his new friends to join him one early evening and, as they managed to slide along the long thick arm, Cleverley who was the first to climb, now found that he was furthest from the tree, creating space for them all to enjoy the view. The branch was rotten on the inside and when it cracked like thunder, three of the boys watched in horror as the smallest among them tilted back in freefall. Cleverley felt the hollow pop in his cheek like a finger had pulled it apart but the pain wasn't obvious until he looked up at the boys who were huddled around the broken branch and looking down.
“I'm OK,” he tried to reassure them but found the words strange as they left his mouth. As he dabbed the place where he had voiced them, he felt the skin flop over a wet mouth and screamed.
Those memories were distant now. Placed in different grammar schools after their 11 Plus exam, the sudden isolation and pain from being cut off from his friends and the majority of his former classmates was incomprehensible to Cleverley, the punishment severe given the crime of passing the exam with flying colours.
St. Domenici’s put paid to his adventurer spirit, and he was swallowed by a deep sadness that plagued the first semester, opportunities to meet his friends becoming fewer as, effortlessly, they made new buddies and formed stronger relationships with those that they had for months secretly disliked, as they banded together for security against the strangers in their midst. Better the Devil you know.
In the twenty years that had passed, Cleverley and Tighe hadn't shared anything more than a casual greeting on the street. As older teenagers they sometimes bumped into each other at bars and clubs, sharing a stiff awkward embrace, observing on each the sudden change in appearance, Cleverley's overdue growth spurt and the other man's dramatic weight loss. It was painfully obvious that their paths were unlikely to overlap with each subsequent meeting. Cleverley spoke of university and moving to the city and Tighe, in his uncultured rough speech with the country inflection still evident, worked for an uncle on a building site.
Promising to catch up properly, as if they owed a duty to their inner child, they never made the time. Cleverley moved to a university in the city when the time came and opted to stay there when he graduated. Tighe was a home bird and was busy building his own little nest in Ballygorm and before long fell in love with a woman four years his senior. The courtship was brief but intense and when she announced her pregnancy, Lewis Tighe did the honourable thing and married her.
That woman, so recently bereaved, was now licking Cleverley's spotted cheek like it was a lollipop.
“Good evening!” said Regan, loud enough for them to hear.
Cleverley was startled to see the man peering through the window. Louise Tighe pulled back sharply and sat up straight in her seat. Winding down the window, Cleverley managed a smile at the priest, whose face was a picture of joy.
“Hello, Fr Regan. What a surprise this is.”
Regan leaned forward and looked inside the car at the embarrassed face of Louise Tighe who was busy cross-checking her clothes.
“Hi Louise. I tried your house a few times earlier this week. Everything OK?”
“Fine father.” She was squirming deeper into the seat with each passing second the priest stared.
“I hope I wasn't interrupting anything.”
“Louise is going through a tough time at the moment father,” Cleverley said and glanced at the woman as if seeking permission to continue. Louise simply looked away. “She's a free woman and in good hands. She can do what she wants,” he added calmly.
Regan remained crouched and nodded his head gravely. A few seconds passed without either movement or word. It drew the glance of Louise Tighe.
“Very well,” Regan said and straightened up. “I'm not one to judge. I'm just, … a little surprised at the speed that's all.”
Cleverley seemed to anticipate this criticism and he dipped his head to his shoulder and sighed. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”
The priest weighed this statement for a moment and seemed pleased with the words the younger man had just spoken. The smile prompted the driver to also follow suit, satisfied with how the conversation had turned.
“Perhaps you're right,” Regan replied. “After all…” the priest paused for dramatic effect, “we're only Flesh and Blood.”
FIFTY
“He knows,” Cleverley said urgently.
“Who knows?” the voice on the other end of the line said. “What are you talking about? Why are you calling me on this number again? Didn't I tell you?”
“This is an emergency. I don't know how, but he knows! Regan knows!”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. A noisy TV commercial was playing somewhere in the background, suddenly dropping in volume.
“Calm down,” the voice returned. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Guji? Are you there?”
“You've failed,” said the voice at last. “It shouldn't have gone this far. You were supposed to take care of it.”
“I'm sorry. I ... don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I ... can’t.”
“Do you need to be reminded of Lewis Tighe and his fate?”
“No, but...”
“We have given you so much. Do you doubt our cause Brother?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then finish it tonight. Leave no trace. Call me when it’s done.”
“Yes Guji. Flesh and Blood.”
“Flesh and Blood.”
FIFTY-ONE
The back of the small parochial house faced the cemetery. A little pebble-dashed wall three-feet high offering little protection should the spirits suddenly stir in the dead of night and approach the building. Stray dogs sometimes stumbled into the graveyard indifferent to the plaques and monuments, running their flea riddled rough coats along the wall. Satisfied that their itch was scratched, they sometimes paced up and down the paths which divided the resting places, stopping at certain headstones, nose sifting through the marbled stone as if their scent had led them to a former owner.
On this night, there were no dogs, perhaps because of the bitterly cold wind. Creeping close to the wall to shield from the gust, the figure checked its watch for the third time in a minute before becoming completely satisfied. Peeping a head above the wall, they could see the parked car that wobbled against the wind. Their attention soon tracked back to the window, a few yards away, light flicking on the pane between various shades of grey and charcoal. Another glance at the watch confirmed it was just after 1am, and scanning the horizon for any spirit, living or dead, and finding neither, the figure hopped over the wall and into a crouched run until reaching the side of the house.
Carefully inching higher until safely standing, the figure peered through the kitchen window. A pile of dishes stacked high in the sink was nearest but beyond, the door which connected the kitchen to the living room was wide open. The images and voices came from the TV set within. A seat inside was unoccupied although an unfinished glass of red wine sat beside it on the floor. The figure tried to crane around the door and could see the edge of the bureau but not enough to determine if there was someone seated there.
Stepping away from the window and approaching the back door, the figure twisted the handle. It was a quick tug and didn't budge. The wind seemed to pick up now, as if the spirits had become aware of the impending threat and were eager to warn the priest who had guided their passage to the afterlife. The accompanying chill that slid down the spine of the hooded figure was not entirely from the cold as the thought lingered.
Moving along the side of the house, the solitary window was blinded and dark inside. Reaching the corner, the figure stared hard at the gate entrance in the distance which was open to a quiet road beyond and then looked to the left where the line of conifers brooded, swaying in the wind.
Tiptoeing past the card boarded window where the noise of the TV was quickly swallowed up by the encircling wind, they carefully reached for the front door handle and also found it locked. The figure returned to the cardboard window and stood directly in front of the screened wall, a closed, sleeping eyelid at that hour, beyond which was the living room. As if it was hot, the outstretched hand landed on the board, pressing gently with fingertips to assess how secure it was. There was a springiness to the touch, the taped edges seemed strong enough to hold it in place but easy to breach.
Ear cocked to the cardboard, straining for the sound of laughter, snoring or any audible movement above the TV set, the listener found none. Heart racing now at reaching the point of no return, the figure fastened the strings of the hoodie pulling it tight overhead leaving an aperture that covered mouth but left the nose and wide eyes exposed to the air.
Reaching into the deep pocket of dark jogging bottoms, a blade was pulled out and they ran its smooth surface across a palm. Breath held, and pointing the knife in one of the corners, its edge was used to find the gap between the cardboard and window frame, gently levering it back and forth. The sound of tape crinkling wasn't audible in this wind but there was no way of knowing if the sound from the living room would travel. After several minutes of carving, the hooded figure found that there was little resistance to the edges, certain that the window would open under the slightest of touches.
The fingers slowly pushed the top of the cardboard forward and peered into the living room. There was no one there.
The broken window had been cleared of any jagged glass, but leather black gloves were donned in any case and the figure lifted a leg into the room, swivelling body until the step touched the carpeted floor. The rest of the body followed until they were finally inside and raised the sagging tongue that was the cardboard window back again, temporarily fastening it in place with some of the sliced sticky tape. Taking a deep breath, the intruder felt a sudden calm again when the eager ear picked up the tigral sound of a loud snorer in the open doorway that connected that room.
With a sudden ease and fluidity of movement, the figure unhooked the hood from its head and gently walked around with a renewed confidence and ease as if the humble dwelling was their own and they had all the time in the world. The scarred bible sat atop the fireplace which brought a little smile before the glow of the TV set took their attention away and toward a framed pictures of Jesus Christ who seemed to be watching their moves around the room. There was a bookshelf in the corner, heavy with thick tomes.
Pulling out the dagger, the edge caught the light from the TV screen, a DVD that rested on the menu page of a show with a detective.
Approaching the open doorway, the snoring got louder and eyes adjusted in the dim light beyond and saw the tail end of the bed, slippered feet turned up and peeking out from under the duvet. The door opened without creaking, allowing a little more light to enter the room and the intruder could see the priest fully now, submerged under the sheets.
Holding the dagger between both hands, the figure walked slowly to the centre of the room and stood over the bed. The prostrate body of the man lay motionless under the thin sheet that covered his bulk. Half expecting some miracle, a religious experience, an earthquake or something, anything to stay his hand, it found no resistance as the blade fell from high above and sunk easily into the chest of Fr Regan.
FIFTY-TWO
Steady Eddie Chambers was happy to swap shifts with Tommy. He had looked forward to a rare evening off, sitting in front of the stupid box with his wife and rug rats. The call came through to the hotline at stupid o'clock and he almost didn't answer it. The number came up as private but with the family in bed, and bored watching a rerun of a remade classic movie, he decided to answer it. Two hours later he was parked a block down from the church, enjoying a stakeout with a man so jittery on energy drinks, he wondered how the hell he expected to sleep.
“I tell you father. You keep drinking that stuff, you're going to be crapping blood before long.”
The priest ignored him and popped open another can between his legs before drawing a long sip. The binoculars were still fixed to his face, a new addition to his growing sleuth bag courtesy of Spy and Lie Magazine.
“And take those bloody things off your head. This ain’t no damn movie Jack Preacher.”
“I think I see something. Look.”
Chambers let out a tired breath and grabbed the binoculars from the man and pointed them toward the house in the distance. Their angle from the roadside meant that the wall covered the church grounds but through the open gate, they could see the priest’s small house.
“Don't see anything Colombo. Nothing astir, not even a mouse.”
“Look closer. They must have gone inside. Look at the window.”
The officer twisted a dial between the two eye scopes magnifying the focus.
“Your window's come loose. You know I could fix that for you if you want? All it’ll take is VIP access to
the pearly gates.” Chambers said and laughed. It was cut off suddenly when he looked at the priest who had a worried expression.
“I'm certain I saw someone up there. That cardboard should have easily held.”
“Well, I got news for you Kojak, it's flapping up and down now like a nun's knickers. Wind must have taken it. Take a look yourself.”
Regan took the binoculars back. It was already after 1am and he had tested the off-duty officer’s patience plenty for the past two hours.
“There! Look!” Regan was pointing directly at the house.
The officer didn't need binoculars to suddenly see the figure quickly emerge from the gaping window. Firing up the engine, he pulled off the kerb and onto the road flashing on the head lights. Shooting through the gears, Chambers whipped his car into the church car park at full speed, the glare illuminating the house and graveyard.
“Damn. Where'd he go?”
Using the vehicle as a torch, they circled around the house and cast the beam toward the conifers without finding movement except for the tall trees that seemed to shiver in the cold wind.
Regan opened the passenger car door suddenly and sprinted up to the house.
“Hey. Where are you going?” shouted the officer until the wind slammed the door shut.
The car crawled slowly toward the priest lighting his path until he had reached the open window. Parking and leaving the engine running, Chambers got out and entered the door which was held open against the stiff wind by the priest. They entered and the sound of the TV was blaring in the background somewhere to his right. He walked along the small hallway until Regan turned to an open doorway on the left and what Chambers assumed must have been a bedroom.
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