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  Brother Saviour guided his motor home along the macadam road, and parked it outside the address he had been given by the parish priest, number 11, Griston Avenue, a cul-de-sac of pleasant houses, built in the seventeenth century and now faced with modern brick, the old having showns signs of distress.

  Leaving the vehicle, he ambled up the path to the house, admiring the profusion of pretty flowers covering the small garden area at each side and taking in the wonderful mixture of scents.

  He knocked firmly on the door, choosing to ignore the doorbell situated at head height in the centre. On the second knock, he heard sounds of approaching footsteps from within the house. The door opened to reveal a healthy looking young woman, around thirty-four years of age, plain featured, with small, blue eyes set in dark circles. The face, at this time, was unusually lined, undoubtedly due to the strain of the recent weeks. The woman’s hair was of a light brown shade and was brushed neatly back from her forehead and down to her shoulders. She wore make-up, now fading since its application for the morning funeral.

  “Hello?” she said, not recognising her visitor and cocking an eyebrow in a questioning way. “What do you want?”

  “I’m Brother Ignatious Saviour, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “You agreed to see me, I believe.” Ignatious smiled disarmingly and he saw the woman melt to his charm. He was fully aware of the effect he had on men and women. They looked on him in awe; saw him as something of a God – and he enjoyed the misplaced adulation.

  “Oh, yes, Father, - er- Brother. Please come in.” She had not expected to see a priest, especially a Jesuit, to be dressed in modern clothing. She sought no identification; no stranger would know of the arrangement and, besides, this man exuded the power of a distinctly holy man. He was irresistible.

  Ignatious followed Elizabeth into the cosy lounge, noting the days-old dust covering the wooden furnishings and the untidy sprawl of newspapers and magazines lying about the room. It was evident that, beneath the present dirt and untidiness, there was a woman of pride and cleanliness. The death of her daughter had punched the spirit and enthusiasm from her.

  She shuffled to a fireside chair and plonked herself into it, not bothering to invite the good Brother to take a seat. He sat near to her on the well-upholstered settee. No drink was offered. Ignatious looked at her sadly. It was a pity that a person had to endure such suffering. However, he was here to do a job; to lift her spiritual level and thus help her to come to terms.

  Elizabeth spoke. “I don’t really know why I agreed to this meeting,” she said, dolefully. “God has not been very good to me recently. He is not my favourite person.” She raised her eyes to look the priest in the face. “It might shock you, Father,” she preferred to use the more familiar term, “but I am beginning to doubt His existence.”

  Ignatious smiled; a pleasant, comforting smile. “It does not shock me, my daughter. In your present circumstance, who would not feel the same way? Although I carry the Word of God and I live by that Word, I am a man, a human, and I understand the problems and emotions that go with the mortal form.” Elizabeth’s expression softened a little. The aura of the man was enveloping her, in the physical and in the subconscious.

  “What I would ask first, Elizabeth – if I may use your Christian name.” She nodded. “Is that you think of Debbie as you last saw her. Don’t let that vision upset you. Think of her as she was: bright? Cheerful? Lively?”

  “Yes. She was all of those things before going out on that awful day.” Mrs. Singleton was noticeably brighter in her manner of speech. “She was clean and sparkling. I felt she was going out to meet some young man she had met, but she never mentioned anyone to me. It’s just that she seemed brighter than of late and I caught the slight whiff of perfume as she passed. Her whole attitude was more bouncy.”

  Brother Saviour noted the new spark in the mother’s eyes now. “Yes. There you are. Already your spirits have been lifted at the positive thoughts. I can tell you with all certainty that is how Debbie will now be.” His face lit and he stretched his arms out and to the sides, as a conjurer may after performing some astounding act. “You see, Elizabeth, she is with God. Think! Could there be a greater experience than actually meeting our Creator? Believe me. She is happy - happier than she has ever been. She will be watching over you now, caring for you, loving you. She wants you to be happy for her!” His voice had risen as the words poured forth.

  Elizabeth stared unblinkingly at the Demi-God before her. His presence, his word, was all around her, inside her body, inside her mind. She actually slid from her seat and fell to her knees, her head bowed in complete and utter reverence, her hands clasped tightly together. Her fingers disentwined and scrabbled the short distance across the dusty carpet until they touched the priest’s shoes. She caressed them lovingly, moaning softly, unintelligible words spouting from her. After a minute or so, she forced her head up and looked into the benign face of her God.

  The face she saw was the face of a crucified Christ, a cruel crown of thorns digging into His head, blood streaming down the pain-streaked face. Her heart lurched in profound pity before the illusion faded, to be replaced by the face as it was: again benign, still smiling but, this time, the man was naked and sporting a strong erection! This was not real, Elizabeth knew, but the picture was there and she wanted him! Take me now! Here, where Debbie lived. Enter me! Disgust me!

  Ignatious was aware of the mixed feelings showing in the woman’s bewildered face, and he had some idea of the actual thoughts held within. He placed both hands on her head as she knelt. “Elizabeth. You now feel stronger; you can once again deal with your life, in the sure knowledge that Debbie is in her happiest place. God will protect her. You will not see her, that is fact, but you will know that she is with you. Think of it as though she was on a long holiday and that, one day, you will meet again. Let your new-found strength support you.”

  Elizabeth knelt in an upright position, transfixed by the words, by the aura, by the erection that was not really there. She was speechless. She heard, as if through a long tunnel, the priest beginning to speak once more.

  “Elizabeth. God loves us all, each as an individual. Each and every person is known and loved personally by God. He gives us meaning and purpose in our lives. Let us pray.”

  As the holy Brother’s voice resounded louder now, through the building and through the very soul of the wretched mortal, Elizabeth closed her eyes, joining in prayer with the passages that were familiar to her. When her eyes opened, the sinful vision had disappeared and so too, had Brother Saviour. He had left quietly, without her being aware even of his hands leaving her head. She rose and went to the window just in time to see the motor home disappearing around a bend and onto the major road ahead.

  She sat down, feeling utterly exhausted by the experience, bewildered by the wicked thoughts that had invaded her mind, yet with a new awareness of the way ahead; a way without her beloved daughter. The sadness, strangely, had left, to be replaced with a pleasant satisfaction, a glowing of the mind and body. The wonderful, awesome visitor had taken but a few minutes of her life and given, in return, strength and faith.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lawrence Maddigan was a schoolteacher – and a damned good one. He taught at the local Grammar school in a hamlet encompassed in the sprawl of Penn. This was one of the few Grammar schools to survive the purge and change to “Comprehensives,” instigated by the old Labour political regime, under Shirley Williams, the then Education Minister.

  The ‘New Labour,’ of the present day, appeared to support the same ideals but had proved hypocritical in that belief, the hierarchy choosing the more elite education for their own offspring. He was not to know that the policy of “Comprehensives” was later to be rescinded by the new Government, to the absolute surprise of all. Lawrence, as a firm believer in the old system of education as the proven best, was glad of the apparent confusion; at least it meant that his school was safe for the present.

  Despite this, he was a troub
led man. At the age of thirty, he had surrendered to his sexual penchant for boys. Up to then, he had suppressed the urge and attempted to hide his homosexuality from the outside world. He had enjoyed relationships with men, but these had been few and far between – and in strict secrecy. Perhaps the deep lying frustration was the root cause of his desire for the younger element.

  Lawrence was now thirty-four and had used many boys since the first awkward and frightening encounter. After that occasion, he had almost fallen apart, worried that the law may catch up on him, terrified that the boy would tell his parents, and he felt a deep shame. Work had been impossible. He spent days and nights crying, eventually visiting his doctor who diagnosed stress as his problem; it was difficult teaching in this day and age. The prescribed tablets helped calm Lawrence and allowed him to enjoy deep, untroubled sleep thus laying the foundations for recovery.

  One morning, some six weeks later, he woke up feeling strong and purposeful, ready for the world at large, his demons firmly buried. The shame he had felt gave way to confidence in his sexual choice; had the boy not actually enjoyed the experience? He had shown no untoward reaction, no ill effects – and he had obviously not told his parents.

  However, over recent weeks, Lawrence had begun to question his own activities again. There had been so much in the newspapers about paedophilia that the public was extra sensitive to anything of that kind and, in his quieter moments, Lawrence felt so sorry for the poor victims he read about. He wondered how he, also, could do such things? Then, alone in bed with his thoughts; thoughts that aroused him, he ratified his perversion.

  Even so, as a good Catholic boy, he had finally confessed to his parish priest in the confessional box, seeking spiritual advice. The priest, Father McGiven, had first pointed out the fact that, as he had only just brought this to confession, having been carrying out the abuse for the past four years, he had been living in permanent sin and, by accepting Communion, he had been systematically defiling Christ.

  The admonition had not been what Lawrence had been prepared for, nor had been the following advice that he should go immediately to the police and report his crimes. The confessor had suggested that Lawrence must be aware that abuse of innocent, pure children was a most heinous sin, not to mention a crime against humanity itself. He told him that, until he purged himself by admitting to the police and suffering the consequences, he could not be accepted to the Kingdom of Jesus. The priest offered to help in any way he could and would be understanding and approachable. Lawrence was given five ‘Our Fathers’ and six ‘Hail Mary’s’ to say as penance and then dismissed with the words: “Go in peace, my son.”

  He went back to the polished wooden pews in the main body of the church and knelt, quietly intoning his penance. In between the familiar prayers, his thoughts wandered, wondering why, if God was all forgiving, did he have to confess his pleasures to the police. Surely, on the Day of Judgement, his Creator would show pity. Not a single thought travelled in the direction of the suffering of his victims. By the time the penance had been completed, Lawrence had decided that the priest was wrong on this occasion; after all, whilst the Pope may be infallible, priests were not.

  Two days later, another hot, cloudless day, the boys were out in the fields, enjoying an unseasonable kick-about with a football. Drenched in sweat, they stopped often to take in hefty drinks of soda pop before continuing with their efforts. The game was interspersed with friendly wrestling and chasing of the two girls who had joined them. A quick kiss when caught was magic – for both parties.

  After half an hour, the heat proved too much to continue the game of soccer, so it was decided that the group, half a dozen lads and the two girls, all between the ages of eleven and thirteen, would take a ramble through the adjoining trees and fields, earthen pathways intersecting at regular intervals.

  They strolled along, chattering enthusiastically, enjoying the six-week school holiday of which they were in the fourth, not yet becoming bored by being at home. At times, one or two would scale gnarled and knotted trees, to see who could climb highest but none proved better than another, each reaching roughly the same height. As usual, the girls endured being chased by the boys, somehow always getting caught even though much fleeter of foot. One could be forgiven for believing it to be planned.

  Far into the woods, the group decided to take a rest, coming upon a small clearing. They were thankful to lie down and chat about their various interests; pop music, their favourite artists or artistes, football, television programmes, etcetera.

  After a short time, one of the boys, after chatting earnestly to one of the girls, got up and escorted her from the group and into the nearby trees. The others smiled and gave knowing winks and rude signs to each other, knowing what the friends were sloping off for. Much giggling followed before the subject of pop music again took up the interest.

  Andy and Paula, as the two young people were named, drifted deeper into the trees, cuddling and kissing as they went, Andy risking a tentative hand up Paula’s T-shirt. Not having his hand or face slapped, gave him the encouragement he needed and he continued to fondle her firmness, albeit a little clumsily and over-vigorously. Although the experience was a bit painful, Paula allowed him to continue, basking in the pleasant tingling ‘down there.’ At thirteen, she was coming to terms with her blossoming sexuality and indulging in early experimentation.

  With eyes misted and only for each other, the couple lay down on the fern-laden ground. “Have you ever done it?” asked Andy, coming straight to the point.

  A blushing Paula answered: “No. Have you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Andy lied, “loads of times,” inadvertently pushing out his chest. He was Mr. Experience.

  “Will it hurt?” Paula asked, nervously, letting Andy’s hand slide up her thigh. Her face and body were burning as never before. This was new, exciting and sinful. It was great!

  Lowering his trousers, Andy slid between the trembling girl’s legs, his lust raging. He pressed himself to her, realising that she was still wearing her panties, but this was not going to be an obstacle at this fiery stage.

  Andy had seen his teacher, Mr. Maddigan, every weekday over the past two years, holidays apart. He had always thought of him as rather nice but not very good-looking. He knew Sir was not married and he was not too surprised. There had been talk amongst some of the school kids that he was a ‘faggot,’ and had been with a few of the boys, but nothing had ever really come to light. However, it was good to be able to label someone of authority with a derogatory tag.

  Andy had never noticed that Maddigan’s eyes were blue, although the sparkle in them did draw attention. He had always seemed a good teacher; interesting and not too strict.

  Today, though, Andy did notice the teacher’s eyes, and that they were blue. However, there was no sparkle in them. They stared directly at Andy and Paula in their compromising position on the padded ground. The whitest face Andy had ever seen surrounded the eyes.

  Whilst the young boy’s passion instantly subsided, it was a full minute before his vocal chords began to work. “Sir? Sir?” he gasped, hoarsely, not expecting a reply from the man who was, so clearly, dead.

  Hearing the word, Paula immediately panicked. ‘Sir! A teacher from school? Oh, no! How could she live down the shame? What punishment could she expect? Oh, no!’ she thought, all in a microsecond. The front of her neck stretched as she slid the top of her head into the ground allowing her to look behind from her place beneath her shocked partner.

  What Paula saw would live with her for many years to come, possibly for the rest of her life. Mr. Maddigan was completely naked and secured between two saplings, forming a bizarre ‘X’. The body was covered in cruel wealds, criss-crossing over the chest and abdomen. The face bore a largely untroubled expression, seeming to be seeking an answer to some unknown question. Paula’s eyes moved down the scourged body, pausing momentarily on the shrivelled, and now useless, manhood. Curiosity at a time like this!

  Then came th
e scream. It began with a silent hiss, teeth bared, lips curled as if in a snarl, raising to a hoarse, elongated cry before developing into a full-blown, nerve-jangling scream, the vessels on Paula’s neck filling with blood until it seemed they would burst.

  Andy got up quickly and readjusted his trousers. He was shaking like the leaves around him, now stirred by a gentle breeze. His hands clamped over his ears and he began to wail, mirroring the awful cries of Paula who had not moved from her uncomfortable position, and whose scream was continuing unabated.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The local police in Penn contacted Scotland Yard at four in the afternoon on the day Maddigan’s abused body had been found. The call was put through to D.I. Sampler.

  “Hello, Sir,” the voice began. “This is Sergeant Flint, of Penn Constabulary. We met recently over the Debbie Singleton murder.”

  “Yes. Hello, George. Got something for me?” He smiled at George’s voice: a pleasant man and easy to talk to.

  “Well, sir,”

  “Please, George - Graham. No need for formality.” Sampler interjected.

  “Yes. Okay, Graham.” He paused before continuing. “Hard to believe, but we have had another murder. In one of the hamlets this time.”

  Sampler again interrupted. “Christ! Not another young girl?” he barked.

  Flint went on: “No. Not a young girl, quite the opposite. It’s a man, a local schoolteacher by the name of Maddigan. Well respected, liked by his pupils, seemingly not an enemy in the world. The body was found today by a couple of school kids. Needless to say, they are both in shock.”

  “What stage are you at, George?”

  “I’ve done nothing as yet except to get my lads to take statements from a group of kids that were with the couple who found the teacher. I’ve sent the two to hospital for now and informed the parents. I doubt if I’ll be able to obtain their statements before tomorrow.”