The sound came again, a little louder. It was like a moan, scarcely human. An animal, perhaps. A dog or a wounded cat.
He padded through the darkness towards the transept. Above the host, a red flame shuddered. He strained to see in the gloom.
There was something on the altar. Something living. He felt his breath catch in his throat, sour and frightened.
‘Eamonn,’ he whispered, ‘is that you?’
The thing on the altar moved. Patrick climbed the steps, the scent of incense heavy in his nostrils. The air felt sickly, raddled with holiness. As he drew near, he saw that the white altar-cloth was stained. Like juice or wine, a long streak of red had soaked into the cloth. Memories rushed in from his childhood to dismay him, the horror of the chalice of blood, the horror of the flesh offered up as bread, the horror of Christ’s bleeding from seven wounds across the altar. The thing on the white table was a man.
They must have tied him before dragging him here. They could not have done what they had done while he was loose: he would have struggled, in spite of his age. He seemed unaware of Patrick’s presence, unaware of anything but the pain surrounding him. But he was conscious, that was the horror.
Patrick’s fingers fumbled with the ropes. He felt bile rise in his throat, burning him. They must have hacked out the eyes: the sockets had filled with blood, like rock pools after high tide. Like a basin of blood in an abandoned Egyptian temple.
‘Eamonn,’ he said, ‘it’s me, Patrick. Can you hear me?’
The old priest moaned again, but showed no other sign of recognition. The ropes were tight, lashing the frail body like the threads a spider uses to secure its prey. But they were not needed now. The old man had no strength left in him.
‘Who did this, Eamonn? Why? Why?’ He was crying. Tears touched the altar cloth. His hands trembled, loosening the knots. He looked up and saw the figure of Christ, suspended in semi-darkness, a wooden figure nailed with wooden nails. The old man groaned and tried to move.
‘It’s all right, Eamonn. Don’t try to speak. I’ll get an ambulance. We’ll get you out of here.’
The last knot came undone and he pulled the ropes loose. There was nothing more he could do here. He had to get an ambulance. Taking off his coat, he rolled it up and placed it under the priest’s head as a pillow. He knew he should wipe away the blood from De Faoite’s face, but he had a horror of the bleeding sockets.
‘You’ll be all right, Eamonn. We’re going to get you to hospital. I’ve got to go to ring for the ambulance. But I’ll be back soon.’
As he looked up, he caught sight of something on the back wall. Above the altar pyx, someone had scrawled a message in large black letters. There were two lines. The words meant nothing at first, then, with a shock of recognition, he saw that the letters of the First line were actually Hebrew and that the inscription was in the same language. The second line was in Greek.
The first line was easy to translate:
Eye for eye, it read, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.
He was less familiar with Greek, but the inscription was not difficult:
And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.
The paint was still wet. It had run in places. The writer had been in a hurry. But not too much of a hurry. Underneath the lines of writing, the same hand had drawn a circle. In the centre of the circle was painted the outline of a candlestick. A candlestick with seven branches. A menorah with a cross.
‘Eamonn, if you can hear me, nod. I’d like to know if you’re aware I’m here.’
Suddenly, De Faoite’s hand reached out and grabbed Patrick by the wrist. He pulled him down towards him. His lips were moving, trying to form words. His breath came in jagged lumps. Saliva ran across his lips and chin.
‘Pass ...’ It was scarcely a whisper. Patrick bent his
head closer, his ear against the old man’s trembling lips.
‘I can hear you, Eamonn. What is it? What are you trying to say?’
Again the lips moved.
‘Pass ... Pass ... over...’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Soo ... soon ... Pass ... over ... soon. Find ... Balzarin ... Gave him papers ... Knows ... something ... Ask ... Balzarin ...’
De Faoite’s hand relaxed and let go of Patrick’s wrist. His body fell back limp. At the foot of the Virgin, another candle gave itself up to darkness.
EIGHT
The footstep was soft, but magnified in the stillness. Patrick whirled round. Shadows. Darkness that was not quite darkness. A sound high up in the ceiling: mice? bats?
‘Al-salam alaykum, Patrick. You’re a long way from home.’
The soft voice sounded exaggeratedly loud in the hushed emptiness. It had come from a clump of shadows in the central aisle. Patrick took a step back, almost tripping at the foot of the altar.
What’s wrong? Getting nervous? You were never nervous, old friend.’
The voice was so familiar. Familiar yet strange, as though someone had borrowed it. The greeting had been Arabic, but the speaker was not an Arab.
‘Alex? Is that you?’
‘Who were you expecting? Jesus Christ? That famous Jew who abandoned the working classes for...’ A figure stepped out of the shadows into a pool of weak light. He gestured vaguely with a gloved hand. ‘... for this.’ What did he mean, Patrick wondered. The wood? The plaster? The cheap candles? The silence?
What are you doing here, Alex?’ Patrick’s voice was stiff and unwelcoming.
We’re on neutral ground now, Patrick. Relax.’
The newcomer held out a hand, but Patrick stayed where he was. Aleksander Chekulayev had been RGB station chief in Beirut during Patrick’s last spell of duty there. They had met several times before that, twice in Cairo, often in Baghdad, once in Najm al-Sharq, a dirty cafe in Damascus where Patrick had contracted food poisoning. His stomach remembered the fat little Russian in the same mouthful as it did rancid hummus. According to the political winds, they had been rivals, enemies, friends, partners in crime - sometimes all at once. Alex had tried to have him killed on one occasion. There is no such thing as neutral ground.
‘What is it, Alex? What do you want?’ He was not prepared for Alex. His thoughts were still on the altar with Eamonn.
‘I was about to ask you just that myself.’
Chekulayev took a cautious step forward. Patrick could see him more clearly now. The Russian seemed greyer than he remembered. Beneath its natural pallor, his skin appeared as though covered in a fine grey dust, and his eyes were circled by darker lines, like the hair-thin cracks on a raku bowl. Patrick wondered if the greyness was the price or the reward for a lifetime of thought and lies and insinuation.
Glasnost had sniffed at Chekulayev’s edges and drawn back, perhaps more saddened than frightened. He was too old to change, too young to have learnt how. The system might mellow, but he could wait. In the end, it would grow grey like him. In a sense, he was the system.
The Russian nodded in the direction of the altar.
‘May I see?’
Patrick said nothing. At least he had no reason to think Chekulayev was responsible for this particular mess.
‘Don’t worry, Patrick, I’m quite alone.’ He came forward slowly, like a mourner approaching the bier to view the deceased. Patrick stood aside to let him pass. The Russian stepped up to the altar and stood for about a minute, his head bowed, as
though in prayer. When he turned, his face was grim.
‘Not a pretty sight. You knew him?’
‘Yes. He was the priest here. And he was my friend.’ Patrick still felt numb, unable to take in the horror of Eamonn’s death.
‘Yes, of course, the priest.’ Chekulayev looked round, as though aware for the first time he was in a church. ‘The letters on the wall. Hebrew and Greek. You understand them, of course.’