by Amy Cross
I hesitate, before nodding. In truth, on my way out here I had assumed – after hearing what Mr. Hendricks had to say – that I would find a place of mourning. It did not really occur to me that the victim of this accident would still be on the base, yet now Bolton leads me inside and I spot the faint glow of candlelight coming from one of the rooms up ahead.
“The base's doctor wanted to move him to London,” Bolton whispers, evidently keen not to be heard by the people in the next room, “but poor Charlie refused. The doctor figured he didn't have long left anyway, so he consented to let him remain here. It's surprised everyone how long he's managed to hang on, it's been more than twenty-four hours now, but he said he wanted to speak to a priest and, well, here you are.”
I take a step forward, and now I realize that I can smell some kind of chemical mixture in the air, along with something that seems more organic. Is this, I cannot help but wonder, what burned human flesh smells like?
Suddenly two men appear from the room, silhouetted against the low candlelight.
“He wants to be alone with the priest,” one of the men says. “That's who you are, isn't it?”
“It is,” I reply. “I mean... I am, yes.”
“I need to get outside for a moment,” the other man says, slipping past me. “I need some fresh air. And some beer.”
“Me too.”
“We'll be outside, Father,” Bolton adds. “The other boys are in the mess hall, or asleep. Everybody's just waiting for...”
His voice trails off, and then he heads out with the other two, leaving me alone in the hallway. A moment later I hear a faint groan from the next room, and I realize that I cannot delay. I step forward to the doorway, and then I look through and see that although the room is lit only by the light of a solitary candle, I can just about make out the shape of a man on a bed pushed against the far wall. Nearby, a trolley contains various syringes and bottles, probably left behind by the doctor after pain medication was administered.
The smell in the room is intense, thick with ammonia and bleach and other aromas that I cannot quite place.
Suddenly the figure on the bed lets out a harsher, more anguished gasp, as if my presence has been noted.
“I am here, my child,” I say, stepping into the room and approaching the side of the bed. I must put aside all my aversions, and I must comfort this poor, dying man. “It is Father Loveford, from Briarwych.”
The figure groans again. In the low light, I can make out barely much more than his outline, although in truth I am a little relieved that I cannot see the full extent of his injuries. Even now, I can just about see that the skin on his hands is horribly burned, with bloodied and discolored patches, and I cannot help but feel shocked that such a badly-hurt man could even be alive in such a state. His pain and suffering must be incredible, and I truly cannot understand how he could have survived this long.
And then I see that he is holding a small white cross.
Barely half as long as one of his fingers, the cross is so simple and so plain. It is completely white, save for smears of blood and other bodily fluids that have been trailed along all its sides. After a moment, the man's fingers turn the cross around a little, and it's quite clear to me in this instant that the poor fellow is deriving a great deal of comfort from this simple symbol of his faith.
“I thought I might perhaps read to you,” I tell him, as I take the Bible from my pocket. For some reason, my hands are trembling a little. “If there are any passages that you particularly -”
Before I can finish, he lets out another gasp, louder than before and more pained.
Startled, I look at the man and see the silhouette of his face, and the light from the candle picks out the very edge of his horrific burns. This poor soul barely looks human anymore, and I quickly glance down at the Bible so that I do not have to see such injuries. God forgive me for such cowardice, but I simply cannot observe such obvious, terrible pain.
“I can choose some passages,” I continue, even as I feel utterly useless. “There are certainly some that might comfort you, in this time of -”
Suddenly he gasps again, and this time he tilts his head back. I stare at him for a moment, not knowing what to do but fighting the impulse to simply flee the room and call for the doctor. Ordinarily I would reach out and hold the fellow's hand, but in this situation I worry that I might inadvertently cause him a great deal of pain. I have only words, then, so I suppose I must search the Bible for some suitable passages. Before I can do so, however, the man tilts his head back even further and opens his mouth wide, and a faint clicking sound seems to be coming from the back of his throat.
He is trying to say something.
“What is it, my child?” I ask. “Tell me.”
The sound continues, but I cannot pick out any words.
“You must not trouble yourself too greatly,” I explain. “Please, allow me to read to you, and then -”
Suddenly his whole body shudders, and he lets out a long sigh. I freeze, staring at him, and then as the seconds tick past I realize that not only is he no longer moving, but that I do not hear any indication that he is breathing. I watch intently, holding my own breath even, but the man has now fallen entirely still, and I am beginning to fear that he has perhaps reached his end. Indeed, as the second tick silently past, I come to realize that this is truly the case. I arrived in time to see the poor man, but too late to read to him or to provide any real comfort.
He is dead.
Finally, realizing that there is nothing else left for me to do, I read a few passages from the Bible out loud, and I pray for the man's soul, and then I get to my feet and head out of the room.
“Is it over?” Bolton asks.
“It is,” I reply.
“We expected as much,” he says, as the two other men slip silently into the room. “We felt he was hanging on for a priest to come. He was a great believer in all of that, Father. We all say we are here, but Charlie used to pray morning, noon and night. He was a good lad. What happened to him was a tragedy, but at least he's not suffering now.”
“Amen,” I whisper.
I pause for a moment, unsure as to what I might say yet still certain that I should say something. After all, it is my role to bring comfort to those who are suffering.
“I am sure,” I manage finally, “that I was not the only reason he hung on for so long.”
“And I'm sure you were,” he replies. “Or do you not think faith is that strong, Father?”
“Of course it is, but...”
My voice trails off. Is it really possible that that poor, injured boy managed to cling to life just so that he could see a priest before he died?
“Thank you for coming out,” Bolton continues. “I know it might not feel as if you did much, but I'm sure you gave him great comfort. If nothing else, your sitting with him for a few minutes gave him the peace he needed in order to let go. He'll be sent home for burial, of course. There's a family out there who'll have to be informed.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “If there is anything I can do to help, you must let me know.”
“I just wish I understood what had caused the accident,” he continues. “He was always so careful, he used to remind the others about the safety procedures. I can't believe he'd have cut corners like this, in a way that could lead to something terrible happening.”
“We all make mistakes,” I point out.
“Not Charlie,” he replies, as he looks back through into the room, toward the dead body. “Charlie was one of my best workers. Something must have caused him to make a mistake. There's something we're not seeing here.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By the time I get back to the church, midnight has well and truly passed. I must confess that, as I push my bicycle through the doorway, I feel utterly exhausted. This is hardly surprising, given that I traveled today first from London to Briarwych by train, and then by bicycle out to the airbase and back. Still, I have to be up bright and
early tomorrow morning, to resume my duties and to arrange for the poor dead man's burial.
After shutting the door, I lean my bicycle against the wall and then I start making my way toward the kitchen, only to suddenly stop and look through toward the distant altar.
I am not alone.
I feel the sensation more strongly than ever now. There is somebody here with me in the church, somebody unseen, and I believe I just heard another faint rustle of fabric. Earlier I was able to deceive myself into thinking that this was nonsense, but now the belief is getting stronger and stronger and finally I walk over to the back row of pews and stop again, listening for any hint of a presence.
Finally, I am unable to keep myself from speaking.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the cold darkness of the church. “Is anybody there?”
I wait.
Silence.
This is ludicrous. I am allowing recent events to get the better of me, so I turn to go to the kitchen, only to suddenly hear a very faint but very definite bumping sound coming from somewhere near the altar.
I turn again, but now the sound has stopped.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, struck by the sound of fear in my own voice. “Is... I mean, are there... I mean, is anybody here? If there is somebody, I would like you to show yourself immediately.”
Again, there is no reply.
I want to simply go to the kitchen, to put this all down to a moment of exhausted fear, but instead I force myself to start walking along the aisle, heading toward the altar. I know that I shall find nothing there, of course, but I cannot help glancing around in case there is any sign of another figure here in the church with me. One can try to be as stoic and as logical as one likes in these moments, but there are times when we all let our defenses down. And as I reach the altar, I take a deep breath and -
Suddenly I freeze as I see her.
A woman is kneeling on the stone floor just a few feet away, with her head bowed and her hands clasped together. For a fraction of a second I am seized by fear, gripped by the belief that this must be the terrible sight of Judith Prendergast herself, but then as I take a step back I realize that there is something familiar about both the white dress that the figure is wearing and about the curve of the back and the curls of the hair that hangs down to cover the side of her face.
“Lizzy?” I whisper, as I realize that it is indeed she. “Are you quite alright?”
I wait, but she does not respond. She does not do anything to even indicate that she is aware of my presence.
“Lizzy,” I say again, taking a step closer. “It's me, Father Loveford. I have returned a little early. What are you doing here so late?”
Still, she does not respond, although she shifts slightly and I hear that same rustling of fabric that I first heard earlier before I went out to the airbase. She must have been here all that time, if not longer, and now it's almost as if she is in some kind of trance. She simply remains kneeling in the moonlight.
“Lizzy, it is late,” I say, stepping even closer and then reaching down and touching her shoulder. Instantly, I am shocked by how ice-cold the shoulder feels through the thin fabric of her dress.
I wait.
Why does she not look at me?
“Lizzy,” I continue, trying to sound a little more authoritative, “I really must insist that you get to your feet. I'm sorry, but I am very tired and I do not think I am in a fit state to offer any help at this time. Unless something specific has happened, I must ask that you rise. You shouldn't even be in here this late, I only left a key with you because I wanted you to be able to clean while I was gone. You were not supposed to let yourself in like this.”
I wait.
Nothing.
“Lizzy!”
I pull on her shoulder.
Suddenly she gasps and pulls back, slumping against the edge of a nearby pew. At the same moment, she looks up at me with a wide-open mouth, and in the moonlight I am shocked to see that her eyes are completely white.
Startled, I step back.
Whimpering as if she is in terrible distress, Lizzy rolls onto her side and puts her arms across her face, almost as if she is momentarily blinded by a great light. Her whole body convulses and then, just as I am trying to work out what I should do next, she lowers her arms and rolls onto her back, and she looks up at me with eyes that are – blessedly – slowly returning to their normal state. They must have been rolled far back in their sockets.
She says nothing as she stares at me, and it is almost as if she does not recognize me at all.
“Lizzy,” I manage to say finally, “what in the name of all that's holy is going on here? Are you quite alright?”
I wait for her to explain herself, but she continues to simply stare up at me. In the moonlight, her face looks quite pale indeed, almost sickly.
“Lizzy...”
“I'm sorry!” she stammers, suddenly starting to get to her feet.
I take hold of her arm to help her, but then she bumps against me and attempts to push past. Still unable to determine what is happening, I keep hold of her tight, forcing her to remain.
She struggles again, before slipping and falling hard against the edge of one of the pews.
“Careful!” I tell her. “You'll do yourself damage!”
“I'm sorry!” she says again, sounding now as if she is on the verge of bursting into tears as she scrambles to her feet. “Please, I'm so sorry!”
“You keep saying that,” I reply, “but whatever is the matter? This is most unlike you, Lizzy. What are you doing here so late?”
She turns to me, and then she looks at the altar. I can see from the expression on her face that she is entirely lost. She glances around, as if she is looking for somebody else, and truly she looks to have taken leave of her senses.
“I don't know what happened,” she says finally, her voice trembling with fear. “I came earlier, to do some additional cleaning, and the whole church was so still and peaceful, and then...”
She hesitates, and now there are tears in her eyes as she turns to me.
“I don't remember,” she whimpers, as the first tears start rolling down her cheeks. “Father Loveford, I am so sorry, but I don't remember a thing! I came to clean, but that must have been hours ago. It was daylight and everything seemed absolutely fine, and then suddenly I find that I am here and it's night and I don't understand what can have happened!”
I stare at her, watching her eyes for any hint of that utter whiteness that I saw just a moment ago.
“My eyes hurt,” she whispers, as if she herself is in a state of shock. Reaching up, she touches her lower eyelids. “They're sore.”
She hesitates for a moment, before turning to me.
“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” I reply, choosing to keep from upsetting her further. There is no need to tell her what I think I saw, especially since it was most likely a trick of the light.
“Oh, Father Loveford!” she sobs, suddenly stepping toward me and putting her arms around me, holding me tight. “It's so frightful that I don't know what happened. You must think that I have entirely lost my mind!”
“Of course not,” I reply, although I must confess that this possibility had begun to occur to me. “It is late, and you are tired. You are not the only one. Most likely, this will all make a great deal more sense in the light of morning. Why, I often find that a good night's sleep is all that's needed for one to come to one's senses. I myself am greatly tired, and in truth I barely feel as if I can function. Let us talk more in the morning.”
I wait, but she continues to sob, and finally I put my arms around her. This feels rather forward of me, yet I know that I must offer the poor girl some comfort. There is also the fact that, deep down, I like the closeness, and for a moment I breathe deep the simple smell of her hair. I believe I would very much like to continue holding Lizzy, and that in turn she wo
uld benefit from my -
“No,” I say suddenly, pulling away as I realize that this is wrong. “I'm sorry, but we shall have to continue this in the morning.”
“But Father -”
“I need to sleep,” I add, surprised by my own weakness. “Lizzy, please, you too need to get some rest. You are not due to clean tomorrow, but please come anyway if you feel the need to do so. Or don't. It's entirely up to you. But for tonight, I must retire to bed. Alone.”
I feel rather callous, but at the same time I worry about what might happen were Lizzy to stay. I very much value my restraint, yet something about Lizzy makes me doubt whether I could hold back. I might do something that I would later regret very much.
Lizzy pauses, as if she might be about to remonstrate with me, but then she takes a step back.
“Of course, Father,” she says, furrowing her brow for a moment, and then she turns and hurries along the aisle as if she cannot wait to get out of here. Perhaps she sensed the same informality that has left me a little flustered.
“I shall be here in the morning!” I call out, worried that perhaps I was a little too short with her, that I drove her away. “Feel free to come and speak to me, if you wish. Lizzy? I shall be here in the -”
Before I can finish, I hear the door slam shut, and I let out a sigh as I realize that perhaps I could have handled that situation a little better. Then again, I cannot afford to let the girl get too close to me, since she might start to get the wrong idea. She is young and impressionable, and I would estimate that there are perhaps twelve years between our two ages, perhaps even as many as fifteen. That, I feel, is a little too large a gap for a man to consider a potential wife. After all, social norms must be observed.
It is for the best that I sent her away.
Taking a deep breath, I look around one final time before making my way back along the aisle. I must put all thoughts of Lizzy out of my mind for tonight. At the same time, I cannot help thinking back to the sight of her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Something about Lizzy looked most unusual tonight. Almost unreal.