All Rotting Meat

by Maleham , Eve

  McCarthy blinked. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘And what happened afterwards?’ Poppy said.

  ‘Well, he got twenty-five years in jail,’ he said, ‘and got let out after twenty for good behaviour, though he always said he never felt remorse about it, and wanted to be allowed back in the Church. After he was released from jail, he went straight to Rome, tried to directly appeal to be let back in, but that didn’t work - so he came back here.’

  ‘How long was he in Rome for?’ Poppy asked.

  McCarthy shrugged. ‘A few years – four or five. I dunno what he did there, though; you’d have thought that a simple no would have done it. I don’t see what that has to do with exorcisms, though. I didn’t even think that Uncle Rufus did any exorcisms. He’s never told me that he did any.’

  ‘We’re placing the pieces of what we have found together,’ Poppy said. ‘As I wrote to you in the emails, we believe that Mr McCarthy can offer us a different perspective on exorcisms.’

  Flynn McCarthy narrowed his eyes slightly in thought.

  ‘What kind of perspective?’ he said.

  ‘A fresh one,’ Mitch said. ‘Exorcisms have mostly been twisted by Hollywood, and media stories of some self-appointed pastor pouring bleach down a child’s throat. I think that, based on Father McCarthy’s earlier career, we can get an honest, and very unique, insight into how the Church performed exorcisms before the reforms of the Nineties.’

  ‘Had to ask,’ McCarthy said. ‘Not sure why you’re going to the trouble of coming here.’

  ‘Our research is patchy,’ Poppy said, taking another sip of juice. ‘We’re still trying to fill gaps. Do you know much about your uncle’s youth, his experience in the seminary – anything like that? Or if he knew a Father Mannix Laoch?’

  McCarthy gave a ruffled smile. ‘Well, I wasn’t told much as a child, and both me parents passed quite young, but I dug out some family records for you. It’s not much but bare bones, I’m afraid.’

  Mitch smiled. ‘That’s okay, we appreciate your help.’

  They waited while McCarthy took out a notebook and some pocket glasses, before he peered down at the page.

  ‘Rufus McCarthy: he was born in nineteen-fourteen in Killarney, became ordained in nineteen-thirty-six, sent to a parish in Dublin, then was excommunicated in nineteen-sixty-nine, the same year he went to prison. His seminary was St Peter’s College – and that’s about all that’s written about him.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Poppy said, feeling a deep, sinking feeling in her chest.

  ‘Well, he’s my great-uncle, and he’s a murderer,’ McCarthy said. ‘He’s hardly bragged about. He did know a priest called Laoch, though, got a photo of the two of them up on his wall; I think they were friends.’

  ‘Did he mention anything about his life in the Church to you?’ Poppy said. ‘Especially in regard to exorcisms?’

  McCarthy took a long drink of beer. ‘Yeah, he did,’ he said, ‘after he moved back here. Not about exorcisms, as such, but he thought that the Church had gone too soft and complacent while he’d been a priest, and inept by the time he got out of jail. He said that there were still demons out there, but that he was getting too old to fight them, and there needed to be more young people ready to take on the fight, but they didn’t care. In fact, if you took every single conversation we’ve ever had since he got back here and boiled it down, you’d get that – just rephrased, over and over again.’

  ‘Demons?’ she asked, out of the corner of her eye Mitch took a long drink.

  ‘You know; sinners, heathens, blasphemers, whatever…Unless you’re thinking of actual demons.’

  ‘We think the context behind it would be in terms of literal demons, yes,’ Mitch said, ‘not religious allegories.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ McCarthy said, ‘and I wouldn’t know a thing about any of that. He’s a strange, old man…I wouldn’t put it past him to believe in actual demons with goat’s feet and red skin, Catholicism notwithstanding. He did once kill a man for no reason.’

  ‘And did he say anything about these demons?’ Poppy asked, leaning slightly closer to him.

  McCarthy shrugged, ‘only that they don’t look like what you’d expect. I thought they were just part of a sermon, or something.’

  ‘And can you really not tell us any more about your uncle’s life?’ Poppy said.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not; but you’re here to see him, right?’

  ‘We are,’ Mitch said.

  ‘I’ll lead the way there in my car, it’s only a short drive,’ McCarthy said. ‘Afraid he doesn’t do much but sleep now, so I’m not sure how much luck you’ll get with your research.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Mitch said. ‘Does he live in town?’

  McCarthy shook his head. ‘Nah, he wanted to live away from people, which is probably for the best.’ He drained the last of his beer, got to his feet, and waved back at the barman.

  It had begun to drizzle outside a fine, misty rain. A breeze had picked up, and Poppy instantly found herself longing to return to the comforts of the pub.

  ‘When he came back, I found a cottage about two kilometres away from here for him,’ McCarthy said, as he walked with them to their car. ‘Thought it’d be a comfortable place for him to spend his few final days, but he’s been living there for twenty years now. He kept active for a long time, but now he has a live-in housekeeper and carer. She’s a nice girl, Polish, and she’s cheaper to hire than a nursing home.’

  They followed his car out of the village, and deeper into the hilly mountains. Poppy switched the recorder off and swapped over the batteries.

  ‘So,’ Mitch said, ‘what do you think of Father Rufus, then?’

  ‘I had hoped that his nephew would have known more about his life,’ she said, ‘but we may be in luck, if his ramblings about demons were true and he had mistaken vampires for them.’

  ‘This looks promising,’ Poppy muttered, as they drew up behind McCarthy’s car. She turned on the voice recorder and sorted it away in her handbag.

  The small, single-storey, whitewashed cottage stood on a patch of land, though it was fenced in by wooden posts, the ends of which looked to have been carved into sharp points. As they got out of their car, she could see that the garden inside the fence was full of rose bushes and mustard plants.

  McCarthy gave them a backwards glance as he led the way up to the front door and knocked. A few seconds later, it was opened by a woman in her mid-twenties, her blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail, her blue eyes wide-set and bright. She was wearing tight fitting black jeans and a loose band t-shirt. She looked around inquisitively at Poppy and Mitch.

  ‘Hello, Iwona,’ McCarthy said, stepping into the house and taking off his coat. ‘These are the historians that want to interview Uncle; Mr and Mrs Scot and Heather Owen. Mr and Mrs Owen – Iwona.’

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, smiling towards them. ‘Father Rufus is asleep right now, but I will tell him that you are here, and maybe he will wake up. He sleeps lightly during the day, and was excited for you to be coming.’

  They stood in the hallway as Iwona padded through to the lounge. Poppy glanced around the hall; the house had a snug, worn look to it. The air was warm with the smell of roasted meat, overcooked vegetables, toast, polish, and the unmistakable and vaguely stagnant scent indicating that someone incredibly old lived in the house.

  ‘You can see him now,’ Iwona said, peering around the living room door.

  A rush of heat hit them as they stepped into the room. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and stacks of books were everywhere. There were a few, modern textbooks, which Poppy assumed were Iwona’s, but the rest looked old, with faded covers. A couple of photographs hung framed on the walls; one of a younger, clean-shaven McCarthy with a full head of hair, standing beside an old man in a lawn chair with a baby on his lap, another, a black and white photograph of two priests standing side-by-side in front of a church. One was old with a heavy, stern face, and the other
was a handsome, younger man, with classical good looks, clutching a bible in his hands.

  There was a fire burning in the hearth, and next to that, a man sat in an armchair. Whatever looks Rufus once had, they had long since faded away; he was shrunken in appearance, half of his body hidden beneath a heavy blanket, his face deeply lined and wizened, possessing the colour and texture of parchment. His skin hung loose around his face, making it seem as though he was slowly melting. Most of his hair had gone, revealing a liver-spotted scalp, except for a few patches of wiry, colourless fluff. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to be shaking very slightly.

  ‘Uncle,’ McCarthy said loudly, leaning down next to the chair, ‘these are the historians who want to see you, Mr and Mrs Owen from England. They have some questions for you.’

  The old man opened his eyes a fraction. They were a deep shade of brilliant blue. He raised his hand at them slightly in welcome. Flynn McCarthy gestured to Mitch and Poppy to sit down on the sofa.

  ‘Would you care for some tea?’ Iwona asked. ‘It would be no trouble.’

  Flynn nodded. ‘May as well.’

  She left the room, though Flynn stayed, taking a seat in the armchair opposite his uncle. Poppy exchanged a fraction of a glance with Mitch; ideally, they wanted him to leave.

  ‘Father McCarthy,’ Poppy began, raising her voice slightly, ‘I’m Heather Owen. I’m a historian and I want to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?’

  ‘Aye,’ Father McCarthy said, his voice slow, soft and dry, ‘it’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  She gave a nod. ‘We want to ask you some questions about your life in the priesthood,’ she said, ‘and we think you may know of some important information. Firstly, did you know a Father Mannix Laoch?’

  Father McCarthy nodded. ‘He was the priest at the church I went to as a boy. In Killarney. We all thought that he was great. Coming to our town. He was the one who…inspired me to follow the religious life.’

  His accent was even heavier than his great-nephew’s; Poppy was relieved that he spoke slowly, with heavy breaths, so that she could break down what he was saying.

  ‘Did he tell you about his work in London?’ she asked.

  McCarthy’s blue eyes slowly widened and lifted up to meet hers, just as Iwona came back into the room carrying a tray and placing it on the side table next to Mitch, and there was the bustling of pouring out tea for everyone. It was a fancy china set, decorated with painted roses, though as Poppy brought the cup to her mouth, she saw that it was chipped. Flynn sat back in the armchair, his saucer ringed with ginger nuts.

  ‘Did you know about Father Laoch’s time in London?’ Poppy asked again, wishing that Flynn would leave the room. Slowly, McCarthy gave a fraction of a nod.

  ‘I did,’ he said.

  ‘And did he tell you about the exorcisms there?’ she said, her heart starting to pace faster. McCarthy nodded again, his eyes boring into her.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘They weren’t normal exorcisms though, were they?’ she said. ‘Did he tell you about that?’

  His face seemed to tremor into a faint smile.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘they weren’t. When he told me about it…I thought it was the stuff of fiction. I didn’t know that such demons could exist in this world.’

  ‘We know they exist,’ she said, ignoring Flynn’s look at her, ‘and we need your help. We need you to tell us everything you know.’

  Father McCarthy gave a dry whizz of a chuckle. ‘I don’t know too much, my dear. My knowledge of them is second-hand, and most of it is lost.’

  ‘Please,’ Mitch said. ‘The Church knew how to fight them in a way no-one else did.’

  McCarthy directed his piercing look onto him. ‘On this matter…the Church ignores its own history. The world has grown soft and cowardly. I am now a weak, old man, and no-one listens to the old anymore. They hide away from the dangers of the world behind their gadgets and phones, which makes it easier…for demons to creep in and hide with them.’

  ‘And Father Laoch,’ Poppy said, ‘what did he do?’

  ‘He fought,’ McCarthy said. ‘He was among the last of them to fight. In London, the capital of a Protestant empire, for an Anglican Queen…but it was the principle of their beliefs they held so strongly.’

  ‘And the Order?’ she asked. ‘We know the vampires call them the Old Hunters - what happened to them after that?’

  ‘Vampires?’ Flynn asked, sitting up straight. Father McCarthy ignored him.

  ‘A lot of them died, then it was a vicious fight. He told me that some of them went back to Rome, while others…were sent on to different parishes.’

  ‘And the Order?’

  ‘It was quietly ended a few years later. I don’t know why – Father Laoch thought that it was a terrible thing to do. But, the Church encouraged him…to be quiet.’

  ‘And why did he tell you all of this?’ Mitch said, leaning forward.

  ‘He wanted younger people to learn how to hunt those demons. He taught me how to see them, as they walk among us. That they have weaknesses…and that they can be killed. I didn’t see any for a long time, until I came across one in Dublin years later…and my nephew would have told you the rest.’

  ‘You thought the man you’d killed was a vampire?’ Flynn said, his eyes popping. Poppy shushed him.

  ‘You killed him with a wooden stake, didn’t you?’ Mitch said. ‘Deadwood, to draw out his life.’

  Father McCarthy jerked his head into a nod. ‘I did. That’s when the Church threw me out, and I knew that no-one else would believe me, so I kept quiet.’

  ‘You went back to Rome, though,’ Poppy said. ‘Why?’

  McCarthy dropped his gaze and clasp his hands together. ‘I wanted to be…allowed back into the Church,’ he said, ‘so I kept appealing for years to allowed to be a priest again. But that never happened. So, I used some of that time to further my own knowledge and understanding…of how the Church worked.’

  ‘The Church has known about vampires for a very long time,’ Poppy said. ‘They used to fight against them to protect humans. Vampires can’t step on Church land, and holy water burns them, yet vampirism predates Christianity. How did the Church weaponise itself against them?’

  Father McCarthy shifted his gaze back to her. ‘We believe that it was one of Enoch’s, the son of Cain and the grandson of Adam and Eve…children who first made an agreement with Satan. The devil would take their soul for eternal damnation, in return for endless life in this world. It was a cursed life. They were forced to drink the blood and eat the flesh of their kin…the sunlight burnt them. The curse spread like a disease through bites, and through birth. Those creatures fled North, away from the harsh sun, to long…dark winters. And those early people used blessings and prayers lost to us now, in order to fashion weapons against them. Deadwood would draw out their false life…rivers would drown them…roses would repulse them. This was learnt under God, but before the Church’s founding, and before the birth of Christ. Father Laoch told me that, as the demons spread, they began to form curses of their own, and there was a constant battle between the people and these demons.

  ‘After the fall of the Roman Empire, our church began to hunt these demons down. Research was undertaken to fight them, research which, Father Laoch told me, the Church keeps a secret at all costs, since it goes against so many of the teachings of Christ and our Lord, but there was…no other way to fight against them. There was an Order in the Church of warriors…who would hunt these demons, and rid the world of their curse. It was easier in those days; people believed what the church told them. They fought and fought to keep…people safe…no mercy was given to those demons, or to humans who aided them. But the world grew smaller, and people turned away from the spiritual life…The demons began to hide themselves among humans…and this great, courageous Order…grew smaller and weaker, until there was nothing left. Father Laoch was the last of this Order to survive; he passed his knowledge down to me…and so
, when I die…it will die with me.’

  A silence stretched out in the room, before it was broken by Flynn.

  ‘What the feck are you lot talking about?’

  ‘The research,’ Poppy said, the heat of the room flushing her skin; she felt sweat beading on her forehead, ‘do you know anything about it?’

  Father McCarthy shook his head. ‘Sadly, I’m afraid I don’t know much. It was over a thousand years ago…but, what Father Laoch told me was that it was so terrible that it could not be mentioned. That those scholars who so aided our fight, their sacrifice was such that to reach their goal, they didn’t so much as go against their beliefs…but shunned them entirely…to be cast down into hell. It is said that some…went mad. I have theorised though,’ he said, his eyes sparkling, ‘of what it could have been. I wrote most of it…in jail…and some later on. Flynn,’ he said, ‘will you please ask Iwona to bring me…the copies of my notes?’

  Flynn McCarthy gave a brief nod and left the room.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ McCarthy said. Poppy could see that in the time they had been talking, he had grown paler, his breathing rushed and shallow. ‘Giving me a home…in my old age…Though I have been nothing but a…burden to him...he doesn’t listen to me, though. I’m glad that you are…taking an interest in this…After Father Laoch died, I thought no-one could care about such forgotten history.’

  Flynn came back into the room carrying four large stacks of papers bound together, and placed them on the table stand on McCarthy’s side.

  ‘I have written more…since…’ he said, ‘but I have not had copies made of them yet…since no-one has asked to see them. But I will get copies made and send them…to you…as soon as I can…if you leave your address with Iwona. But, please,’ he said, weakly holding the manuscript and trying to pass it to Mitch, ‘take this...for your…historical research.’

  ‘We will,’ Mitch said, gently taking them from him with a smile. ‘We really appreciate all the help you’ve given us. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Poppy said, grabbing her cane to leave, as Iwona came back into the lounge with an expectant look on her face. ‘This has been really helpful, but I think that this has been enough for one day,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your notes.’