Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  A single retort rang out and Michael slumped at his feet, the gun clattering to the ground unfired. Farrell’s legs went from under him with shock. The door onto the platform opened and what seemed like a torrent of people squeezed through. There was a single bullet hole from a high-performance rifle in the glass panel of the door.

  ‘Nice shot,’ croaked Farrell.

  ‘Figured you didn’t have a lot to lose,’ shrugged the young firearms officer.

  ‘How did you know which one to shoot?’ asked Farrell.

  The officer shrugged nonchalantly.

  ‘I saw the tattoo on his arm.’

  Farrell looked down at Michael. The tattoo was curling up at the edges. It was a fake.

  His brother was being attended to by a paramedic. The woman grimly shook her head and radioed down for a stretcher.

  ‘Give us a moment?’ he said, turning to the firearms officer, who took in the situation at a glance.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he said motioning to his team to fall back.

  The paramedic also moved away. The man was dying. There was nothing to be done.

  ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘To make peace with my brother,’ Farrell replied.

  ‘I tried to kill you. It should be you lying here, not me,’ Michael said, his voice growing fainter.

  ‘Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans …’ said Farrell.

  Michael’s face convulsed and he made a choking sound.

  ‘Those little boys, I shouldn’t have … I didn’t want to … Something made me …’

  ‘I know,’ said Farrell.

  He looked down at his dying brother and all the hatred that had been raging inside him just melted away, leaving only compassion in its place.

  ‘The darkness is coming to take me,’ Michael said, the life force continuing to ebb out of him.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. Say a genuine act of contrition and God will forgive your sins and welcome you into his family.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ said Farrell, aware that time was running out.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …’

  Farrell leaned closer as Michael’s voice grew fainter.

  ‘I killed a man with hatred in my heart. I took little boys to save them, to bring them to You but got confused. I tried to kill my brother …’ Michael coughed up blood. It wouldn’t be long now. ‘Forgive me, Father; I am sorry for my sins …’

  Farrell closed his eyes in relief. ‘May the Lord, who frees you from sin, save you and raise you up. May the Lord pardon you whatever sins you have committed. I hereby grant you a plenary indulgence and the remission of all your sins, and I bless you. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

  As Farrell finished, Michael took his last breath. Looking at the strangely familiar features relaxed in death Farrell prayed that his blighted soul was finally at peace.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Farrell opened one bleary eye and glanced at the digital clock face. Ten a.m. With a sigh he rolled over in bed, pulling the duvet tightly around him. There was nothing to get up for so he might as well not bother.

  The phone rang. Farrell gritted furry teeth in annoyance as he waited for the answerphone to kick in. It had better not be her again. She’d called every day for the last two weeks. Talk about not getting the message. He groaned in frustration as his mother’s cool clipped tones intruded on his self-imposed exile.

  ‘Frank, it’s your mother. Again. I just need to know that you’re all right. No one at the station will tell me anything. I want us to move forward from this terrible thing. I was wrong. I know that now. Call me.’

  ‘Too little, too late,’ grumbled Farrell trying to bully his conscience into submission.

  He squeezed his eyes shut but sleep continued to elude him. Eventually he threw back the covers and stood up. His head was still thick from last night’s whisky. Stumbling over to the mirror, he glared at himself belligerently then averted his eyes. He was a wreck and no mistake. A sour smell caused him to wrinkle his nose in distaste. He realized he need look no further for the source than his own body. Slumping down on the edge of the mattress he realized he had a choice. He could keep going as he was until he ended up losing his job and maybe even the roof over his head or he could decide to rejoin the human race. It was the smell that clinched it. He stood up, straightened his shoulders and marched into the shower.

  An hour later he had stripped the bed, thrown the windows open, and hoovered and dusted for good measure. Sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling half-heartedly on some toast, he felt completely spent. The rest of the day yawned before him like a black hole to fill. He felt absurdly reluctant to put a foot over the threshold of the cottage. Glancing through the door to the hallway he noticed that the postman had been again. He trudged along and picked up the various letters, putting them all in a wicker basket unopened. Some would be bills but most seemed to be cards and letters. Opening them would be allowing the world back in and he wasn’t ready to do that quite yet. Daytime TV would be his saviour. Fill in some time until the clock struck six and he allowed himself the first shot of liquid oblivion. It was a life, of sorts.

  Trudging upstairs, he flopped onto the couch and switched on the TV. He flicked through the channels before settling on Teletubbies. It made as much sense as anything else in his life of late. After an hour he decided it was rather appealing, and there was a lot to be said for being a teletubby whose main concerns seemed to be the consumption of adequate amounts of tubby toast and tubby custard.

  The doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again. Scowling, Farrell crept over to the window and peered out. His heart quickened. It was Clare. The doorbell rang a third time. This time she bent down to the letterbox and shouted through it.

  ‘Frank! I know you’re in there. Let me in.’

  Farrell swung the door wide.

  ‘Clare, come in. It’s great to see you,’ he said, wincing at how stilted and unnatural his voice sounded. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d talked to anyone.

  He attempted to pull her into an embrace but she was stiff and unyielding. He offered her coffee and then they went upstairs to the lounge.

  ‘How have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied, more testily than he had intended.

  Well what did she expect? He had been holed up at Kelton for nearly three weeks and he hadn’t heard a cheep out of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank. I know I’ve not been there for you.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said.

  ‘It all got so intense. I felt overwhelmed.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Because of my work, I tend to be mired in people’s private Hell a lot of the time. To be honest, it can be hard to cope with,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to be detached, to keep my distance. That’s why in my personal life I try and keep my relationships—’

  ‘Light and frothy?’ interjected Farrell.

  ‘Something like that. I was … am … still attracted to you Frank, but you come with too much baggage. I can’t deal with it. I’m sorry.’

  Farrell stood up, anxious for her to leave now that she had said her piece. He didn’t want her to know how much she had wounded him.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I’ve got things I have to do,’ he said, opening the front door.

  This time, she flung her arms around him. As he folded her against him he closed his eyes trying to store the memory of her delicate form and the subtle notes of her perfume. He could feel her tears wet his cheek. After a few seconds it was done and he was alone again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  As he approached Loreburn Street Farrell felt distinctly on edge. Walking through the corridors on the way to his office, he wondered whether it was his imagination or was everyone avoiding eye contact? Hardly surprising, mind you, he thought, given e
verything that had gone on. He pushed open the door to his office and stood there rooted to the spot.

  ‘Surprise!’ yelled a sea of faces.

  It looked like he had stumbled onto the scene of a child’s birthday party. There were balloons and streamers and a big banner saying ‘WELCOME BACK’ that was dripping with glitter glue.

  Lind walked forward.

  ‘The twins helped with the banner.’

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said Farrell.

  His room appeared to have been feminized in his absence with a pink furry thing, flowers, and pictures.

  Mhairi bounced forward, irrepressible as ever.

  ‘I baked you a cake,’ she announced, pushing Byers aside to reveal a towering edifice covered in chocolate and bearing more than a passing homage to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  ‘Heart attack on a plate,’ Farrell said. ‘My favourite.’

  From the back of the room, DI Moore picked her measured way towards him.

  ‘Welcome back, Frank,’ she said, handing over a slim leather-bound book of Psalms, exquisitely illustrated.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  As he leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek he was amused to notice Mhairi glaring. He immediately disengaged himself.

  ‘Who’s for chocolate cake?’ he asked.

  After half an hour everyone slowly dispersed until it was only Farrell and Lind left.

  ‘So, how are you, really?’ his friend asked.

  ‘Turned the corner, I reckon,’ replied Farrell. ‘Ready to get back in the fray.’

  ‘The super wants you on light duties for a couple of weeks. And er …’

  ‘Out with it,’ groaned Farrell.

  ‘He asked me to convey that he will quite understand if you would like to apply for a transfer,’ finished Lind, looking awkward.

  Farrell laughed out loud.

  ‘Tell him that God has revealed it is my vocation to serve the people of Dumfries and Galloway under his command.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Lind, jaw dropping open.

  ‘’Course not, you pillock,’ replied Farrell. ‘Just can’t resist the opportunity to wind up the super.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell him yourself,’ said Lind on his way out the door. ‘He might decide to shoot the messenger.’

  Left alone at last, Farrell sank back into his chair and exhaled deeply. There was a vast amount of paperwork on his desk and he pulled some towards him and got stuck in.

  After half an hour or so, he drew back in his chair. There it was again … a scratching noise. Where the blazes was it coming from? Could it be mice? A plaintive meow rent the air. Farrell followed the sound with a frown. It was coming from the cupboard. He flung open the cupboard door, bracing himself. A very irate black-and-white cat with impossibly green eyes arched its back and spat at him.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ murmured Farrell.

  Not only was there a cat in his cupboard but it seemed to have come with a whole pile of accessories, he noted. It was the lilac fur in the basket that gave the game away. Gently closing the door again, he charged down the corridor, meeting a worried-looking Mhairi on the way up.

  ‘Something you forgot to mention, DC McLeod?’ he asked, folding his arms.

  ‘Er, that depends, Sir.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how what I might have forgotten to mention might be received?’

  ‘A cat, Mhairi? Whatever possessed you?’

  ‘Don’t you like cats, Sir?’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he said.

  ‘I thought he would be company, something to come home to,’ she said, shrugging helplessly and refusing to meet his eyes.

  ‘Does he have a name?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘His name is Henry. He belonged to a really sweet old lady who died a few days ago. I couldn’t bear to see him put down.’

  ‘Relax, Mhairi,’ Farrell replied. ‘I’m sure that Henry and I are going to get along fine.’

  That evening, as he drew the curtains and looked round the lamplit cottage, Farrell felt a rare feeling of peace steal over him. He poured himself a small drink, put on some classical guitar music, and sank into an easy chair by the crackling fire. After some hesitation, Henry leapt on his knee, turned himself around and settled down, purring contentedly. Farrell stroked him gently then came to a decision.

  He picked up the phone from the table beside him and dialled a number from memory.

  ‘Hello, Mother …’ he said.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Jules Horne, a former writer-in-residence at Dumfries, who mentored me through the first draft with support and enthusiasm – I doubt I would have gone the distance without her; my sources within the local police who were so generous with their time; my fantastic editor, Lucy, who helped so much with insightful comments, and the team at Killer Reads. Thanks also to Cherie for my wonderful book design. A great big shout out to the supportive gang of writers from Crime and Publishment and Moffat Crime Writers for their friendship and encouragement. I would also like to thank the online twitter and blogging community, a world I have only recently discovered, for their helpfulness and generosity. In that regard, I am grateful to my son, Alex, for helping me to take my first faltering steps on social media. Finally, a big thank you to Guy, Alex and Jenny for encouraging me to keep going and supplying me with endless cups of coffee along the way.

  About the author

  Jackie Baldwin practiced as a solicitor in a rural town for twenty years, specializing in family and criminal law. She then trained as a hypnotherapist and now works from home. She is married with two grown-up children and loves to walk with her two dogs in local forests. She is an active member of her local crime-writing group.

  Dead Man’s Prayer is her first novel.

  @JackieMBaldwin1

  If you enjoyed Dead Man’s Prayer, try another Killer Reads crime debut:

  DCI Matilda Darke has returned to work after a nine month absence. A shadow of her former self, she is tasked with re-opening a terrifying cold case. Then a dead body is discovered, and the investigation leads back to Matilda’s unresolved homicide. Suddenly the past and present converge, and it seems a killer may have come back for more…

  Click here to order a copy of For Reasons Unknown

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