Читать книгу Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 6

Father Ignatius Boyd lifted the crystal tumbler to his mouth and gulped greedily at the brandy, his shaking hand causing the glass to knock unpleasantly against his teeth.

The ruby velvet curtains and gas fire did nothing to dispel the chill he felt in his soul. It had rattled him seeing Frank Farrell at Mass this evening. His past mistakes had been haunting him of late as his body began to fail him. It would not be long until he met his Creator, and he had a feeling he would be found wanting. He had recently travelled to Rome to confess his sins to an anonymous priest but it had not brought him any comfort. His penance had not been the anticipated repetitions of the rosary, but a harsh command to reveal what had been hidden and to make what restitution was in his power. Until he completed that penance, his immortal soul remained in peril.

When he had seen Farrell at Mass this morning he had felt it was a sign. Before his courage failed he had hurried after him but his shouted greeting had fallen on deaf ears.

Another letter had been waiting on the mat when he returned home. For a moment he had the insane idea it might have been left there by Farrell, but on reflection he acknowledged it wasn’t his style. He picked it up from the floor, where he had flung it in a rage, and studied it helplessly for some clue as to the sender’s identity. The paper was cheap and flimsy, but the words meant business.

It was eleven o’clock. He walked over to the window and moved the curtains a fraction so he could peer out. The darkness pressed against the window as though it was trying to get in. He opened his bedroom door and listened intently. All was quiet and as it should be. Father Malone and the housekeeper did not keep late hours and had already retired to their rooms. Remembering the stricken expression of the young priest earlier, he felt a slight pang of remorse. He could have handled the situation better.

Suddenly the insistent trill of the phone pierced the silence. He swiftly ran down to answer it, his plain black cassock whispering on the stairs. With trembling hands, he picked up the phone, the colour draining from his face as he heard the menacing voice on the other end of the line.

Slowly he replaced the receiver on the hook. With a lingering backwards glance, he opened the back door and slipped out into the still night. It was clammy and not a breath of air disturbed the overhanging trees as he hurried up the narrow lane to the church, his heart thudding uncomfortably against the confines of his chest.

He went in the small door to the rear of the church and paused to listen. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the thump of his heart. As his eyes acclimatized to the darkness he walked slowly towards the confessional box, resisting the urge to flee with every step. He paused outside the Priest’s door. The handle wouldn’t yield. He walked to the Penitent’s door and swung it open. As he sank onto the kneeler the metal grille flew open and Father Boyd reared back with a shout of terror, hearing the sickening crunch of bone against unforgiving stone.