by Paul Gitsham
‘Tony, can you hear me?’
Nothing.
‘Tony, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,’ Warren repeated, fighting to keep the panic from his voice, even as he tried to regain his breath.
The man’s grip remained limp.
Richardson had her fingers under Sutton’s chin, probing gently.
‘He has a pulse, but it’s very fast and erratic.’
Sutton gave a groan.
‘Tony. Stick your tongue out for me, mate.’
Sutton’s jaw worked, but his tongue flopped around loosely.
Warren grabbed his friend’s other hand.
‘Give us a squeeze, pal.’
This time the grip was stronger.
Sutton was mumbling again, Warren leaned closer
‘… leave …’
‘No, I’m here, I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going anywhere.’
Sutton squeezed harder.
‘Get … bast …’
‘Say again, mate.’
‘Leave … get … bastard …’
‘Leave you? No, I won’t leave you. He’s got nowhere to go, he can wait.’
‘… jump …’
It took Warren a moment to realise what his friend was telling him.
Almost five hundred years ago, Matthias Scrope had thrown himself from the roof of Middlesbury Abbey. Angus Boyce had just headed up to the roof of the retirement home. There was only one way for this to end.
‘Let the bastard jump,’ Warren said, his voice harsh. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
Sutton squeezed his hand again.
‘… duty …’
Richardson’s radio crackled.
‘Paramedics are on their way up, sir.’
Sutton squeezed his hand again.
Warren bit his lip. If Angus Boyce hadn’t jumped yet, it would only be a matter of moments before he did so. Would Warren’s presence make any difference? Could he talk the man down?
His duty was clear, he had to try.
Yet his best friend was lying here, in the middle of what appeared to be a stroke. He glanced at Richardson next to him. She’d opened Sutton’s collar, preparing him for the paramedics Warren could already hear coming up the stairs.
Warren felt helpless. He’d not been able to do anything for Gary Hastings, it was too sudden, too unexpected. Yet what was he accomplishing here? His First Aid refresher course was fully up-to-date, but Richardson was just as qualified. There was nothing he could do that she couldn’t do at least as well.
He looked Sutton directly in the eye before squeezing his hand one last time. He owed him that much at least. Getting back to his knees, he headed towards the stairs.
Chapter 90
‘Stay where you are. Don’t come any closer.’
Warren froze, the icy wind whistling across the rooftop. The clouds had cleared and the moon, barely half-full, still provided enough illumination for Warren to make out the shape of the person before him.
The house was three stories high and Warren guessed that each floor was about five metres in height. Fifteen metres in total; fifty feet. A fall from that height was likely to be fatal. Even if the fall itself wasn’t deadly, the sudden jerk of the rope around the man’s neck certainly would be.
‘Don’t do this,’ pleaded Warren.
‘Why? Are you going to tell me it’ll be all right? Perhaps you’ll let me go?’
‘You know I can’t do that. But I can get you help.’
The shadowy figure stepped up onto the thin parapet that encircled the building’s roof. One more step and it was all over.
‘I don’t need help, I’m beyond that. Besides, I’ve finished. There’ll be no more killing. I’ve done what I needed to do.’
‘What was it you needed to do?’ Keeping the conversation going was all Warren had. He was out of options.
‘You know the answer. I needed to right those wrongs. I needed to make sure that those who sinned received their punishment.’
Warren bit his lip. He really had no idea what the figure in front of him wanted him to say.
‘Tell me about those wrongs. Tell me what needed to be righted.’
‘Oh, I think you’ve figured that out, DCI Jones. You know about this little safe haven that Bishop Fisher has created here. A place where abusers can live out their lives in peace, shielded from the consequences of their actions. They won’t even be judged in the afterlife, because Bishop Fisher has forgiven them their sins. He’s absolved them of all wrong-doing. They’ll never be tried for their crimes on Earth or in Heaven, when really they should have rotted in jail then burned in hell for what they did.’
‘And you are the person to fix this are you? You get to be the judge, jury and executioner? Who gave you that role?’
‘Who else was there? Nobody believed those children. Nobody was going to seek justice for what happened to them.’
‘Murder is a sin. Who is going to absolve you of your sins? If you jump off this roof, you’ll escape Earthly punishment but your soul will be damned for eternity.’
‘Maybe it should be! Maybe it’s what I deserve. Maybe I’m no better than those I’ve killed.’
‘Surely you can’t mean that?’
Boyce opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a dull, vibrating noise from Warren’s coat pocket.
Warren swore.
‘Don’t answer that,’ ordered Boyce.
‘I’ll switch it off,’ said Warren, lifting the phone carefully from his pocket, manipulating its touch screen, before placing the handset on the black, tarred roofing felt.
‘Do you know what the biggest sin is in this place? Bigger even than the crimes of Fathers Nolan, Daugherty and Madden?’
‘No, tell me.’
‘Collusion. Keeping silent. Bishop Fisher hid behind the seal of the confessional, burying those sins, absolving the sinners of responsibility, protecting them – and his precious church – from the punishment they deserved.’
‘But that doesn’t justify killing Gabriel Baines or Rodney Shaw. Neither of them could hear confession. Neither of them covered things up.’
‘Of course they did. They must have known. They’ve been at the side of Bishop Fisher since before this place even existed. He must have told them.’
‘Why? Why would he tell them? The seal of the confessional is absolute. No matter what those priests admitted to, Bishop Fisher would never have told Deacon Baines or Rodney Shaw.’ Warren raised his voice. ‘They were innocent. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.’
‘No, they weren’t. Nobody in this place is innocent. Gabriel Baines killed his wife to inherit her fortune and hide his affair, and Rodney Shaw has been in on this since the start.’
‘Father Daugherty was innocent. He was falsely accused. That’s why he refused to confess. He hadn’t done anything wrong.’
‘No. That’s what they all said. Cormac Nolan denied everything until the drugs took hold. Frank Madden’s face turned purple before the bastard confessed. Gerry Daugherty was a coward, he died before he had the guts to confess his sins.’
‘Confess what sins? The girl that accused him admits she made the whole thing up. That poor man had a nervous breakdown because of what was done to him. Bishop Fisher took him in because that’s what this place is for.’
‘No! It’s a hiding place for sinners.’
‘No, it isn’t. We’ve gone through the records of everyone who has ever stayed here. We’ve trawled through that damned website with a fine-tooth comb. Apart from Father Daugherty, who was innocent, the only men with any allegations against them were Father Cormac Nolan, Father Frank Madden and Father Wilfred Dodd. And those four are the only men who moved here upon the advice of Bishop Fisher, because of “mental health issues”. I’ve seen the diocesan records myself. There are over twenty men living here, and everyone else is over 75 or ill, with no one else to care for them. They either applied to move here upon retirement or were recommended to move here by the current bish
op.’
‘No, they were all guilty.’
‘Of what? Tell me what you know and how you know it and I promise we’ll investigate. We’ll throw everything at it.’
The man said nothing. Warren’s eyes had adjusted to the dim moonlight and the faint glow of lights from the windows below. He could see the riot of emotions on the other man’s face. He had to keep him talking.
‘Tell me about your brother.’
The man stiffened, and for a moment, Warren thought he’d called it wrong and he’d pushed him too far.
‘Keith’s story remained untold when he was alive. Tell it to me now and I’ll make it part of the official record.’
The silence stretched between them. When Boyce finally spoke, his voice was low; his tongue sounding thick in his mouth.
‘For years I thought he was a wicked person. He was always getting into trouble, hanging around with the wrong sort of people. Then when he left school, it all got worse. The drugs. The thieving. The homosexuality.’
The man wiped the back of his hand across his face.
‘Jesus forgave the sinner. Hate the sin, love the sinner. I really tried. I begged him to come to me for forgiveness, but he refused. I said he could come and stay with me in Rome, thinking that maybe if I could get him away from all those bad influences and help him reconnect with God, then he could be saved.
‘But he said the church was full of hypocrites and that he wanted nothing more to do with it. Or with me.’
Boyce sniffed again. ‘1999 was the last I heard from him. I didn’t know any of his friends and Mum passed away shortly after I left for Rome. I didn’t know where he lived or how to contact him.’
‘How did you find out about him dying?’
‘I was in Haiti when I heard, helping out in the field hospitals as a medic. I’d been using Facebook for a couple of years, when I got a friend request from Lucas Furber. I recognised the name and his photo looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. So I accepted the request. He said he was a mate of Keith’s.
‘I was angry that he’d had the temerity to contact me. He was the one that I blamed for Keith’s problems. Whenever Keith was in trouble at school, Lucas was beside him. They were always being caught smoking or drinking or skipping lessons. I’m sure Lucas was the one who introduced Keith to drugs. And I’d heard the rumours. About them.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing at first. I couldn’t decide whether I was ready to forgive him or not. I went and spoke to my advisor and he told me to pray and ask for the Lord’s guidance.’ He snorted. ‘I don’t know what else I was expecting him to say, we Catholics aren’t the most imaginative. If in doubt, kick the problem upstairs.
‘So I did, and in the end I decided to at least ask how my brother was. I supposed I assumed that they were still together. He told me that he hadn’t seen Keith since they’d left school. And then he told me about what had happened to him.’
The man gave another loud sniff.
‘Of course, I didn’t believe it at first. But he sent me links to the story in the newspaper. About how he was believed to be homeless and that he’d jumped the barriers and thrown himself in front of the train. There was no way it was an accident, he stood up in the suicide pit to make certain the train hit him dead on.
‘I guess a part of me always knew that something like this would happen. That he was destined to either die on the streets or kill himself. You know, nobody even knew his surname?
‘Anyway, Lucas told me he was contacting me because he thought I should know what had happened to them at school. About the things that Father Dodd had done to them. And how no one had believed the two “queer kids”.
‘Lucas told me about my brother, Keith. The real Keith; about the fun side that I never saw because I’d been too busy being the big brother now that Dad was gone. I was the one that everyone expected to make the school proud; off to seminary in Rome. Another Tommy Ticher on his way to the Vatican.
‘Keith and I were only at school together for two years and Father Dodd joined the summer I left. He never taught me, and I only met him once. I’ve often wondered if things might have been different …’
He cleared his throat.
‘Lucas told me about Survivorsonline. He wanted to know what had happened to Father Dodd. He said he wanted to look him in the eye and get an apology. He just wanted a confession.
‘By this time Thomas Tichborne had closed down. So we asked on the alumni website if anyone had heard anything. Somebody said that he had retired to some home. St Cecil’s was the obvious place.
‘Lucas tried to go and see him, although he was escorted off the premises before he got as far as the front door. He then persuaded me to apply for a leave of absence to return to England to deal with my brother’s affairs.’
‘What happened when you got back?’
‘I met up with Lucas; he was living rough in Stevenage. Lucas was convinced that he needed to be closer to the home, so he and his boyfriend moved to Middlesbury and we decided to visit.’
His voice took on a brittle, amused edge.
‘It’s not difficult to gain access to a priest’s retirement home when you’ve got one of these on.’ he pointed towards his neck. ‘Obviously Lucas wanted to come as well, so I got him cleaned up and told the sister that answered the door that he was Father Dodd’s nephew.’
‘Then what?’
Boyce’s voice grew harsh.
‘The bastard was already dead; he died peacefully in his fucking sleep.’
Warren wasn’t entirely sure that dying from leukaemia could be characterised as ‘peaceful’, but he decided to press on.
‘So what happened next? Why are we here, Gus?’
Boyce was silent. Eventually he sniffed. ‘I’m a priest. I’ve done loads of funerals, but I never thought I’d be the one to … not my little brother.’
Boyce fell silent again; in the moonlight Warren could see the tears shining on his cheeks. When he spoke again, his voice was choked.
‘It was so lonely, you know? It was a council funeral, of course. I managed to persuade them to bury him instead of cremating him, but neither Lucas or I had enough money to give him a proper send off. We were the only mourners. Mum and Dad were gone, and we didn’t know any of his friends. Everyone I knew was either in Rome or Haiti.’
Boyce said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled with emotion.
‘I was going to fly back to Haiti when Lucas called me. He’d been back on Survivorsonline and said he’d found out a bit more about St Cecil’s. He said that other priests who’d abused children had ended up there, and that he had their names. He emailed me the link to the pages on the forum.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Nothing at first. It had nothing to do with us. Neither of those priests abused Keith or Lucas, or had anything to do with Thomas Tichborne.’ He sighed. ‘But Lucas wouldn’t let it go. He said that no one had believed him and Keith until it was too late. He said that we should at least get them to admit to what they did. Perhaps even get the police involved.’
‘So what did you do, Gus?’
He laughed mirthlessly.
‘I got a job here. It was dead easy really. I’m a trained medic and they were spending a fortune looking after Fathers Ramsden and Kendrick, because the funding for adult social care is so poor. I lied and said that I wanted to come back to the UK to be near my mum, and it was that simple. Deacon Baines got Bishop Fisher to pull a few strings and there I was; living and working in a retirement home full of bloody paedophiles.’
The story was almost unbelievable, but it fitted everything that Warren and his team had already worked out.
‘When did you realise that Bishop Fisher knew about the abuse?’
Boyce was quiet for a long moment, and Warren worried that the conversation was over. Eventually. Boyce started again.
‘The idea that Lucas and I had was that once the priests were
comfortable with me, I’d get them to open up. So I’d play cards with Cormac sometimes, and talk about the footie with Gerry. But it didn’t work out that way.
‘I started to convince myself that perhaps I was wrong. Anyone can post stuff on the internet, it doesn’t mean it’s true. Lucas was angry, he said that I was falling for their charm. That I was being groomed. That I was no better than those who refused to believe the victims of their abuse.
‘I was confused and didn’t know what to believe. I thought about going to Bishop Fisher and telling him everything. Surely he’d know what to do? But then he came to me. He asked if I would be willing to help out hearing confession for the local parishioners. I said yes, and he started musing about how the sacrament of penance was one of the most privileged parts of a priest’s vocation, but also the most burdensome. He said that God forgives all that he hears, but that we as priests must be careful never to judge.
‘And that was when I realised. He knew. He’d always known. It was the only explanation that made any sense.’
Warren said nothing, unsure whether to encourage Boyce to continue talking and chance breaking the spell, or to remain silent and risk Boyce killing himself. In the end, his instincts won out. Boyce was telling his story, probably for the first time ever. He wasn’t going to do anything until he’d finished.
‘I knew that I needed evidence of what Bishop Fisher had done. So I decided to look in his files; his password was the date that he was ordained. I copied the name and history of every priest in that wretched place then searched the internet and Survivorsonline for their names and the schools that they worked at.’
‘That’s how you found out about Father Madden,’ stated Warren.
Boyce nodded.
‘Why didn’t you just tell the police? There’s been a sea change in attitudes towards complaints in recent years. Historic accusations from decades ago are being examined everywhere from the BBC to the NHS, and the Catholic Church is no different.’
Boyce snorted. ‘Don’t be naïve. The church has been covering up abuse for centuries.’ He turned on the spot, wobbling slightly as he swept his arm in an arc.