Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  With typical sensitivity, Lind broke away from his family and flung the door open wide, inviting him to enter.

  ‘Frank, how can I ever thank you?’ he said, in a voice choked with emotion.

  Laura snaked out a hand, pulled on his sleeve; her eyes filled with words unsaid. Farrell backed away, well out of his comfort zone.

  ‘Happy to oblige,’ he said. ‘Can’t stop, I’m afraid. Things to do. Paperwork and stuff, you know how it is.’

  Lind looked at him, not fooled for a minute. Laura had already forgotten about him, smothering the boys’ faces in kisses as she led them away down the hall.

  Farrell sketched a wave and marched briskly down the drive to his car. As he reached the delimit sign and left the streetlights behind, he felt the energy drain from him as the reaction to the day’s events set in. Images whirled through his mind like a kaleidoscope. Turning into the lane at Kelton he dipped his headlights as the gravel crunched under the tyres. Outside the cottage he turned off the ignition and slumped in his seat listening to the clicks of cooling metal.

  As he let himself into the silent cottage he contrasted its sterile welcome with the warmth of the house he had just left. Picking up the phone he flopped into an easy chair and dialled Clare’s number. No joy. Answering machine. He thought back to last night when they had been together. It felt like she had shone a lamp into the dark festering corners of his psyche. She had made him feel part of the human race again. A text pinged on his mobile. It was Mhairi. Mark was going to be fine. He closed his eyes in relief.

  Farrell snapped awake, nerves jangling. He must have fallen asleep. The phone was ringing. Maybe it was Clare. He jumped out of the chair and snatched the phone up.

  ‘Hello?’

  The line crackled but nobody spoke. Farrell was about to hang up when he heard a soft mewl of pain.

  ‘Hello, hello, who is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s your mother,’ rasped a voice he hardly recognized.

  ‘Mother, what’s wrong? I can hardly hear you.’

  Again a long pause.

  ‘I’ve had a fall,’ rasped the voice. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘I’ll come over right away,’ said Farrell, jumping to his feet.

  ‘Wait. I’m not at home. I’m at St Aidan’s.’

  ‘What are you …?’ began Farrell, only to have the connection broken.

  Typical, thought Farrell. Cuts me dead at every opportunity then rings up out of the blue expecting me to bail her out, no questions asked. What was with the woman?

  It had started to drizzle, and Farrell pulled his collar up to ward off the evening chill. What was the daft old bat doing out at the church praying at this time of night?

  When he arrived at St Aidan’s it was in darkness. Farrell contemplated the blank façade of the building in exasperation. This was too much. Every fibre of his being was craving a hot bath and a generous measure of whisky. Leaving the car, he reluctantly trudged round the side of the building and tried the door there. It was locked. Rolling his eyes, he decided to try the Priest’s door at the back, although he couldn’t imagine his mother would have had the temerity to steal into the church that way. She had always been punctilious about observing rules. The round metal knob felt cool in his hand. To his surprise the door opened.

  He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. A familiar smell invaded his nose. Incense. Michael’s signature scent. He tried to tell himself it was just a residue from the last Mass yet the hairs standing up on the back of his neck told him otherwise. It was a trap and his mother was the bait. For one craven moment he felt the impulse to turn and flee. Hastily, he texted Mhairi telling her his location and asking for backup. His mother was in there with a madman. A madman who had sent him an invitation. If he didn’t go in and end this now there was no telling how many more victims there might be. He silently prayed for enough courage to see him through the coming ordeal.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he realized that the interior of the church beyond the small sacristy where he was standing was dimly lit by flickering candles. Stealthily, trying to quieten his rapid breathing, he crept towards the small door that opened onto the altar area. What he saw there caused his heart to miss a beat.

  His mother was sitting in a chair in front of the altar wearing a blue dress. Her hair, which she normally wore scraped back from her face in a severe bun, was falling around her face in soft curls. Scarlet lipstick covered her trembling lips and rouge stained her cheeks. Mascara washed down from faded eyes following channels gouged by age. She looked like a hooker that had seen better days.

  Heart pumping, Farrell scanned the interior of the church but it was hard to penetrate the shadows beyond the altar area. Where was he?

  Just then he stiffened as he felt a soft breath on his neck. He started to spin round but then aborted the movement as he felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun thrust into the base of his spine. Slowly he put his hands in the air, deliberately relaxing the tension in his body. Things were not looking good.

  ‘Glad you could join us,’ said a flat voice in his ear.

  Farrell’s skin crawled.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what it is you want? What do you stand to gain from this … charade?’

  The man moved round to confront him, and Farrell sucked in his breath in disbelief as he witnessed a mirror image of himself.

  The eyes that stared back at him were identical to his in every detail, except Farrell fancied there was a glint of something akin to madness lurking in their depths.

  ‘I want revenge,’ his brother said. ‘Pure and simple. That bitch in there gave me to the devil himself.’

  ‘Let her go,’ pleaded Farrell. ‘It’s me you want. I’m the one who had the life you should have had.’

  ‘Time to play happy families,’ his brother said with a twisted grimace.

  He prodded Farrell none too gently with the gun, and he stumbled forward until he was pushed into a seat beside his mother on the altar. Farrell tried to rally her with his eyes but she simply looked away, taking stubborn to a whole new dimension.

  Farrell couldn’t help himself. He let out a dry laugh. The gun immediately swung up but not before Farrell had noted the look of confusion on his brother’s face.

  ‘What the fuck is so funny?’ spat Michael.

  Farrell winced, in spite of himself, at the crude expletive in such a holy place.

  ‘This,’ he said, gesturing around him. ‘All of this. We must be the most dysfunctional family in Christendom, don’t you think? A guest appearance by the rapist who started all this and we’re all set for an appearance on the Jerry Springer Show.’

  ‘He didn’t rape her. It was consensual. She was gagging for it. He told me.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Burst out his mother. ‘He forced himself on me. I was sixteen years old.’

  Farrell tried to shush her with his eyes but she ignored him. Nothing new there, then.

  ‘He was evil incarnate and you’re the devil’s spawn. Both of you!’ she yelled, spittle flying out of her mouth.

  ‘At least he didn’t give me away like a bag of dirty washing,’ Michael said, caressing her cheek with the gun.

  ‘Father Boyd sold Michael, did you know that?’ Farrell interjected.

  ‘No! He wouldn’t do that. I don’t believe you,’ his mother said.

  ‘Nice little earner. Bought a few home comforts his stipend couldn’t provide.’

  ‘Sold to the highest bidder,’ Michael snarled.

  ‘You were meant to go to a good Catholic family,’ his mother said with a catch in her voice. ‘I didn’t know there were going to be two of you until you were born. It was a shock. My family turned their back on me. I had to go to a Church hostel for unmarried mothers. I thought I would look at you and feel hatred. Yet when I held you both I felt nothing but love. I decided to keep one of you. I knew I couldn’t raise two babies.’

  ‘How did you choose?’ Farrell asked, trying n
ot to betray how much he cared about her answer.

  His mother started to weep.

  ‘Tell him!’ shouted Michael.

  ‘May God forgive me. In front of Father Boyd, I took a pack of cards, shuffled them and dealt you each a card.’ She looked at Farrell. ‘You lost.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Farrell. ‘I’m the one you kept?’

  His mother turned to Michael, her eyes pleading for understanding.

  ‘Don’t you see? It was you who got the highest card. I thought that you were going to a good Catholic couple who would be able to provide you with everything that I couldn’t. I thought at the time that I was sending you off to have the better life.’

  ‘Better life?’ snarled Michael. ‘The monster that raised me was a member of a paedophile ring.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Yvonne Farrell. ‘Father Boyd would never have …’

  ‘What? Looked the other way?’ mocked Michael. ‘He allowed himself to be convinced for thirty pieces of silver.’

  ‘When did you find out you had a twin?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘I always knew,’ said Michael, throwing down a faded black and white photo with one corner missing. It showed two identical babies lying beside each other on a bed, both sleeping and with their heads touching and limbs intertwined.

  ‘It doesn’t have to end like this,’ said Farrell.

  ‘It’s too late and you know it,’ said Michael. ‘The only thing I have to live for is revenge.’

  There was a loud banging noise on the heavy oak doors. That’s torn it thought Farrell. He’d begun to feel he was making some headway. The banging started up again.

  ‘Farrell, are you in there? Open up!’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Michael swung round to aim his gun at the door. The light of reason fading from his eyes to be replaced by a glint of mania. He looked excited, happy even.

  ‘Today we’re going to sample the fruits of eternal life.’

  ‘I’ll settle for a fish supper,’ said Farrell, trying to jolt him out of his fantasy and back to reality. ‘Look, Michael, there’s been enough killing. End this now before anyone else gets hurt. You’ve found us now. It’s not too late to have a real family; have what you’ve always craved. Is it, Mum?’

  Farrell shot a glance at his mother, who had mumbled incoherently. Her eyes were round with fear as the strain of their desperate situation took its toll. He wondered which of his colleagues were outside with Mhairi, whose voice he had heard. His eyes flicked to the side door he had come in by. Mhairi’s face peered out at him from the gloom and his eyes slithered quickly away lest he give away her position. The responsibility of his situation weighed heavily upon him. How to get everyone out safely without a bloodbath? Was it just his unarmed team outside or was there an armed response unit on its way?

  Michael advanced on him and Farrell tensed in readiness.

  ‘Give me your mobile phone,’ he snarled.

  Wordlessly Farrell handed it over after keying in the password.

  Michael flipped it open and looked at his contacts.

  ‘Let’s dial out for a bit of female company,’ he drawled, hitting the speed dial.

  The sound of a phone ringing in the sacristy made them all jump.

  ‘Mhairi, why don’t you come out here before I blow your pal’s brains out?’ Michael yelled, his voice thick with menace.

  ‘No, Mhairi, don’t do it,’ Farrell yelled. ‘Run! That’s an order.’

  ‘Did you say something, Sir?’ asked Mhairi, sauntering over, like she was walking to the park instead of to almost certain death.

  ‘Pull up a seat next to lover boy,’ Michael said, waving his gun in her direction.

  ‘Which one?’ Mhairi asked, giving Michael a come-hither glance.

  She was trying to play him, realized Farrell, marvelling at her bravery.

  Michael regarded her coldly.

  ‘Another whore to seek forgiveness in the House of God,’ he said.

  Farrell heard the ugliness creeping into his brother’s voice. The expression in his eyes seemed even less rational somehow, as though the curtain of madness was about to fall. He had to try and reach him one last time.

  ‘Michael, you’re sick. You need help. These things that you’ve done are because you’re ill. It’s not too late. End this now.’

  ‘It was too late the minute I was sold into slavery by that bastard priest!’ his brother yelled; his voice amplified by the acoustics into a roar of thunder.

  He walked slowly and deliberately over to the older woman and put the gun to her head.

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Farrell. ‘At least allow her to confess her sins before she meets her maker. Please, I’m begging you.’

  Michael considered Farrell for a long moment. Then he moved over to Mhairi, who tried not to flinch as he rammed the gun into the side of her head.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he snarled.

  Farrell took out the small stole and rosary that he carried in his inside pocket. He approached his mother and kneeled down in front of her so his face was angled away from Michael.

  ‘If you think I’m confessing my sins to you, you’ve got another think coming,’ she hissed in his ear.

  ‘Play along, dammit!’ Farrell hissed back.

  By now the building would surely be surrounded and the firearms unit in place. He had to buy them some time.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,’ his mother said reluctantly.

  As the words of the sacrament of penance slipped from his mouth like well-worn pebbles, Farrell was still assessing the situation from the corner of his eye. He noticed Mhairi had managed to hike up her already short skirt and unbuttoned her blouse to reveal some cleavage. She was trying to engage his brother in conversation and appeared to be making some headway. It was now or never. The gun had come away from Mhairi’s head and fallen down against Michael’s side.

  Suddenly, Farrell pushed his mother off her chair and sprang at Michael with all the force he was capable of. A split second behind him, Mhairi flung herself down, knocking Michael off his feet in a rugby tackle that would have done Gavin Hastings proud. The three of them were grappling on the ground, trying to gain control of the gun, when there was a deafening explosion. Thick acrid smoke filled the altar area making it impossible to see. Shouts rent the air and the sound of running footsteps and harshly uttered commands seemed to be advancing in all directions. Farrell felt something sticky on his hand. Blood. But whose? With a last kick, Michael sent him flying. Farrell made a grab for him; his eyes streaming as he tried to pierce the gloom. His hands clutched at thin air.

  In the midst of the ruckus he heard Lind’s authoritative voice shouting out orders. Michael was getting away. Farrell lurched to his feet, dimly realizing that Mhairi and his mother were being taken care of. All the exits would be covered by now. He had to be hiding somewhere inside the church.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Cautiously, hugging the perimeter, Farrell made his way round the shadowy interior of the church. Even now, all these years later, he was still familiar with every nook and cranny. Reaching a recessed spiral staircase leading up to the balcony, he crept up the wooden stairs; the noise being made by his fellow officers now deadened by the thick wood panelling. Reaching the balcony, he probed the darkness with strained eyes. No sign of him. At the far end he glimpsed another set of stairs, roped off to the public, leading directly up to the bell tower. Climbing higher and higher, he wished he had had the sense to tell someone what he was up to. The stairs were narrower now, just wide enough for one person. Farrell’s breath was forced out of him by exertion. Nearly at the top.

  As he reached the last step he could see the bell hanging above him, secured by heavy-duty ropes. The weight would be enough to pulverize a man. A wooden door with a small toughened-glass panel opened out onto a panoramic viewing platform. He looked through the glass but saw no sign of Michael. Was he out there waiting for him
or had he managed to slip round him and double back when he was on the balcony? Heart pumping, Farrell slowly turned the handle, took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold. It was a long way down. Hugging the wall, he slowly circled the platform. Where was he?

  He got his answer soon enough. As he completed his circuit and returned to where he had started Michael was waiting for him with his back to the door and the gun pointed straight at him.

  ‘Have you always been this stupid or did I just get lucky?’ he asked, conversationally.

  Frantically, Farrell cast about for an alternative means of escape. There was none. Those below would find their way up here eventually, but would it be in time?

  ‘It’s over, Michael,’ Farrell said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘Give it up.’

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ snapped Michael.

  ‘Come again?’ said Farrell.

  ‘You heard. Now get them off before I start shooting.’

  Farrell slowly started unbuttoning his shirt. Michael was discarding his own clothes too; his aim never wavering. When they were both down to their underwear, Michael kicked his own pile over to Farrell.

  ‘Put these on,’ he demanded.

  With a sinking heart, Farrell complied, taking as long as possible. The penny had dropped.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ Farrell blustered when they had both finished dressing. Actually, it was brilliant. Michael was going to push him over the edge then slip out dressed as Farrell and disappear in all the commotion. ‘You’d kill me? Your own brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t act so surprised,’ Michael said. ‘Remember Cain and Abel?’

  Farrell had his back against the parapet now; his body being forced backwards by the inexorable pressure of the gun against his head. He closed his eyes, ready to fall to his death; the words of a last act of contrition already forming on his lips.