Revelation �No answer, sarge.� The rain and wind screamed round the house, ripping at the garden, the telephone lines, the squad car with its lights flashing. The young officer looked at his sergeant, and waited for a response. �Should we force it, sarge?� �He�s got to be in there, he surely can�t have run,� said the sergeant. �What?� shouted the young officer, the sergeant�s voice having been lost in a roll of thunder. �I said,� said the sergeant, raising his voice, �that he must be in there. We�ll have to force it.� �OK,� said the young officer, and readied himself for a charge. �No, no, we�ll need the ram. Go and get it.� �OK.� The young officer shielded his face from the rain and made his way to the boot of their car. The wind nearly ripped it off as he opened it, and after retrieving the short ram, found it extremely hard to pull the hatch down again. �Right then, on the count of three,� said the sergeant, as they took their positions. �One, two, THREE.� There was a slight splintering sound, but the door remained shut. �And again, one, two, THREE.� This time the wood around the lock gave way and the door was open. There was no light in the hall. There was a rustling of paper and a small crash as the wind rushed past the policemen and into the house. The sergeant pulled his flashlight and began a sweep. �There, sarge, by the clock,� the young officer pointed. A figure sat, curled on the floor next to a grandfather clock, slight movements accompanying every beat of the pendulum. * * * Whelan watched the rain bouncing off the window. The water was distorting the view. The small garden, the street, the dry-stone wall, the other side of the valley; they were all melting. He sipped from a glass of Scotch. It burned his gullet. The study was unlit except for the lamp on the desk. The bulb was a forty Watt and the glass shade was thick. The Scotch bottle was in the middle of the desk on the green blotting pad. Whelan took another sip from the glass. The window rattled slightly as thunder rumbled between the hills. �And the Lord said unto Moses, how long refuse ye to keep my commandments and my laws?� Whelan said to the rain. In the window he could see a monochrome reflection of himself without any features. He could see the outline of his head, some wisps of hair, the bridge of his nose, the stark white block in the middle of his collar. But where his eyes were, only blank spaces. Whelan went and sat at the desk. He poured more Scotch from the bottle into his glass, then placed the bottle to the side. With the hand not holding the glass, he opened a drawer and took out a pad of paper. It was headed with the crest of the church. He dated the top right corner of the first sheet, then took a sip of Scotch. But he couldn�t think what he wanted to write. �But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, the sexually immoral, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. That would make a fine start.� Whelan threw the pen down, got up, and went to the kitchen. He washed his hands, dried them, then leaned on the sink, head bowed. There was a small plate and a butter knife, soiled, in the bowl, covered in a few inches of lukewarm water. All but a few of the bubbles had burst. The telephone rang. What now? They had only just called to tell him when they would be coming. �Hello?� A hiss and a slight crackle. Breathing? �Hello?� Breathing. Stifled and unsteady. �Hello? Who is this?� Whelan hung up. The other caller. Whelan thought of the name-and-shame campaign of the News of the World. He hadn�t been part of it, but people knew anyway. He was sure. He went back to the study window and looked out at the road. It was empty. In the bedroom, Whelan sat on the end of the bed, left arm leaning on the suitcase. He looked up at the plain wooden cross above the dresser. Looking at it there, on its own on the blank wall, a shiver ripped down his spine. �Remember, and forget not, how thou provokedst the Lord thy God to wrath in the wilderness.� He opened the suitcase again and took out the photo of the seaside day trip. A collection of happy young faces, semi-naked bodies, hair roughed up by the wind. Houghton on one end, then himself. Houghton. Whelan wanted to blame him. Whelan felt himself blaming him right there and then. If Houghton hadn�t started talking about it, well. Houghton actually seemed proud of what he�d done, and he wanted others involved. Whelan didn�t want to share. Whelan wasn�t always proud. It was a mistake even to have found out that Houghton was involved too. But there was nothing that could be done now. Whelan decided to phone Houghton. He picked up the phone on his bedside table and dialled. The phone rang once, twice, a third then a fourth time. �This is Father Houghton. I�m not here right now�� Whelan hung up. He wondered why Houghton hadn�t answered. We�re they picking him up before Whelan, or had he already had another visit? Whelan thought he heard a car. He jumped up and went to the window. Nothing. He put his hand to his forehead and stood for a moment. Picking up the photo again, he looked at himself � he couldn�t remember who had taken the picture � arm round young Stephen�s slender shoulders. A talented boy, Stephen. Whelan remembered watching him nimbly picking his way among opponents on the football field, young, undeveloped muscles flexing, blond hair flopping. Whelan brought the picture closer and squinted. The look in Stephen�s eyes. Trust? A grimace? Fear? Whelan tried to remember, had this day trip been before or after, with Stephen? The day trip itself had been fantastic. They usually went on picnics in the countryside, but Whelan had had the idea of taking the boys to the beach. He thought that they would have more to do there with the rockpools, paddling, beach games; a really good chance for them to get the fresh air to their skin, feel the warming sun. Everyone had been happy that day: the boys, Whelan and Houghton, the one or two parents who came to help out. This was the last photo. The rest had been taken for the investigation. Whelan had hidden this one. For definite this time, Whelan heard a car outside, travelling quite slowly. Stomach tightening, he went to the window again. The car passed by and carried on down the hill and round the corner out of sight. Whelan breathed easier as he watched the glow from the headlights growing fainter. A bolt of lightning struck somewhere on the other side of the valley. He went back to the bed and closed the case. He took the case and made to leave the room. He stopped in the doorway, and put the case down. Walking back to the dresser, he reached for the wooden cross on the wall above it. His hand stopped an inch from the cross. He stared at it momentarily, then turned quickly and left the room, collecting the suitcase on the way. Whelan sat at the kitchen table with a glass of Scotch in one hand, and the photo in the other. There was little light coming in from outside now. The rain beat off the window in waves. In the lulls between each wave, the grandfather clock in the hall ticked, tocked, ticked tying the raindrops to a beat. Whelan sipped, swallowed, sniffed. His eyes watered with the taste while he looked at the photo. Daniel, Sam, Mal, Philip, Josh, Luke. He�d forgotten Luke had been there that day. He tried to remember something that Luke might have said or done on that trip. He had at least one little thing for each of the others. The boys on the photo looked so different from how Whelan pictured them in reality. It had been over a month since he had seen any of them in the flesh. The photo didn�t convey their natural beauty, the natural beauty that many boys have, the innocence, the bright eyes, smiles, nearly always happy. Nearly always. �Unto thee will I cry, O Lord my rock; be not silent to me: lest if thou be silent to me, I become like them that go down into the pit,� he said to the small portrait of Jesus by the cooker. �Oh Lord my rock.� He sipped, swallowed, sniffed and sighed loudly. Another car went past, taking an eternity to get out of earshot. Whelan dropped the glass and the photo, and jumped up from the chair. He ran to the sink and began furiously washing and scrubbing at his hands. �Wash you, make you clean; put away the evil of your doings from before mine eyes: cease to do evil,� he screamed. �Learn to do well, cease to do evil, learn to do well, cease to do evil, wash you, make you clean. Make you fucking clean�� Whelan sank to his knees and stared at his hands. He sobbed. The rain thrashed. The grandfather clock kept the beat. It was dark outside. The hall light was on, as was the lamp on the study desk. Whelan stood at the window. The storm was almost on top of the house now. Four more cars had gone by in the past half-hour, each one causing more anxiety than the last until Whelan felt he would be sick at the sound of an engine. He hated cars. He was frightened of cars. None had stopped. His head felt full. Whelan held the photo, still slightly damp from the Scotch that had been dropped on it. In the gloom, he could only make out the shapes. No features, just outlines of heads, arms, semi-naked bodies. His own outline stood at the side, an outlined arm round the outline of Stephen�s slender shoulders. �Oh, my boys, my wonderful boys.� The thunder and lightning were getting worse, making it worse, being worse. Whelan felt dizzy. With the hand not holding, not holding onto the photo, he grabbed the window frame. The grandfather clock kept the beat. He thought of the Stephens, of boy, of the boys. He, all the things they�d done, all the things he�d done, he could do, all the things, the ones he wanted to do. The window, the rain, making things clean, make you clean. Jesus forgives all, he thought of Jesus, he loved he thought, he loved. God. Whelan, Whelan, dizzy me, waiting, waiting Whelan. The grandfather clock�s keeping the beat. Beat, I�m beat, beat me, find the beat. Into the pit I fly with my photo and my memories, guided by the beat. Turn out the light, let the beat light the way. Found it here, found it. Here�s me, here�s my photo, here�s my memory, here I am, with the beat. * * * �Is he dead, sarge?� �No, look, he�s moving.� The two policemen approached the hunched body by the clock. �Father?� The sergeant crouched. �Father Whelan? I�m Sergeant Bonner, remember? I told you we were coming?� The priest nodded gently, still in time with the beat. He mumbled. �What was that, Father?� asked the sergeant. �What�s going on, sarge?� �Sshh.� The priest continued to mumble. �Sorry, Father, I still can�t hear you.� �Sounds like �make you clean�, sarge. What does that mean?� �How the hell should I know. Come on, help me get him up.� �Oh, sarge,� the young officer stepped back disgusted, �he�s pissed himself.� �I know. Just give me hand, would you?� The two policemen took an arm each and started to pull the priest to his feet. �Come on, now, Father, time to go.� |