Read And Blue Skies From Pain Online
Authors: Stina Leicht
And Blue Skies From Pain (8 page)
He couldn’t help thinking it ironic. Everything he knew about his father and his father’s people was almost entirely comprised of fiction. Yet, the reason for giving himself over to the Inquisitor was so that the Church could learn about the Fey. In truth, he probably knew less than the Catholic Church did, and they didn’t even believe in the Fey. It occurred to Liam that maybe that was another reason why his father had risked sending him—he didn’t know enough to reveal anything important. The realization gave Liam a chill.
Rubbing his eyes, he lay back on the soft feather pillows. The tension from the day had snarled his muscles into painful knots. He couldn’t get comfortable. As a last resort, he grabbed a volume from the bookshelf and read for a time but found he couldn’t focus on the page. He wouldn’t let himself sleep—couldn’t until he knew that Father Murray had returned. However, he did permit his eyes the briefest of rests from time to time. Once. Twice. And then he passed into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 3
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
November 1977
November 1977
“ S
o, you finally have what you wanted, Joseph,” Father Thomas said. “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”
o, you finally have what you wanted, Joseph,” Father Thomas said. “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”
Although Father Thomas was his direct supervisor, Father Murray knew better than to take the remark as anything other than what it was—a symptom of exhaustion and frustration. The peace initiative had gotten a rough start. It’d been a long day, and this was just the beginning. Unfortunately, there were a long series of even longer days ahead, and they both knew it.
“To tell the truth, there are those among the Order who firmly believe you’ve lost your damned mind,” Father Thomas said.
“Are you among them?” Father Murray followed Father Thomas’s bulky form into the steel elevator and attempted to dismiss a sense of foreboding. It didn’t help that the dull ache behind his left eye was showing signs of becoming a rather nasty headache.
Father Thomas shook his head. “You should know better than that. You’ve my full support. If there’s even a small chance you’re correct…” He sighed. “Innocents mistakenly murdered for centuries. I half hope you’re wrong.”
“I’m right in this.”
“I believe that you believe, and that’s enough for me,” Father Thomas said. “But take care how you proceed, and who you push. There are those who want to see you fail. They’ll do anything to prove you wrong. Remember what happened after Waterford.”
Father Murray swallowed.
That was a mess. Three dead when it was finally done. One in mental hospital. Two weeks of suspension.
He’d very nearly been suspended permanently.
But I was proved right, was I not?
He wasn’t always right. No one was, but he liked to think himself wise enough to concede when it became clear otherwise.
Except when it came to Mary Kate, is that not so? How wrong were you then?
“I’ll be careful,” Father Murray said.
That was a mess. Three dead when it was finally done. One in mental hospital. Two weeks of suspension.
He’d very nearly been suspended permanently.
But I was proved right, was I not?
He wasn’t always right. No one was, but he liked to think himself wise enough to concede when it became clear otherwise.
Except when it came to Mary Kate, is that not so? How wrong were you then?
“I’ll be careful,” Father Murray said.
“I’m serious this time, Joseph. The slightest mistake could land you in a containment room. Possibly to the end of your days. Do you understand?”
“I do.” The headache decided to quit lurking and get serious.
“Bishop Avery is taking a big risk. We all are.”
Not as big as I am, apparently.
Father Murray said, “I can only do my best.”
Father Murray said, “I can only do my best.”
“The Bishop has faith in you, Joseph. Keep that in mind. No matter what happens. He believes in this investigation. But there are other considerations. Considerations you’re unaware of.”
“What considerations?” Father Murray felt his stomach tighten in a cold knot.
Father Thomas paused before stepping out of the elevator. “Considerations.”
“Shouldn’t I know what’s going on?”
“Not now.” Father Thomas shot a meaningful glance up at the camera mounted near the ceiling.
Father Murray nodded.
This wasn’t his first visit to the Belfast facility—more like the hundredth, but it was the first time he’d entered it since he’d resigned from the Order of Milites Dei. Nothing seemed to have changed over the past month. The hallway was identical to the one on the underground floor—sterile white walls, grey steel doors and matching flecked-grey tile. Black numbers were etched on the three-by-five-inch steel plates bolted to each door at eye height. The second floor, the one they were currently on, consisted primarily of security, administrative offices, a few apartments reserved for important guests and record storage. The labs, infirmary, kitchen, chapel, medical staff, supplies and two morgues were located on the floors above. The observation room and two examination rooms existed underneath the building. A third set of cellar rooms existed, he knew. They were located on the eastern side of the building, but he’d never been unlucky enough to visit them.
There’s still time, Joseph.
He kept his voice low to prevent it from echoing. “Has something changed since yesterday?”
Father Thomas whispered, “Later.” He opened the door to Bishop Avery’s office and ushered him in.
Entering the dark-paneled room, Father Murray steeled himself against mounting trepidation. The faint aroma of frankincense, normally comforting, didn’t help. Three hours into the peace agreement, he already didn’t like where things were headed. He’d known the situation would be challenging, given Liam’s authority issues and the overall sentiment within the Order toward the Fey, but he hadn’t thought it would metastasize this quickly. He prepared for another fight and scanned the photos of the Order’s heroic casualties—their simple black frames hung in precise rows like tombstones. A thick brown curtain was drawn over the windows to the left.
“Hello, Joseph. Have a seat,” Bishop Avery said, looking up from his paperwork. “Declan, would you mind bringing in some tea?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Father Thomas said.
“Two cups, please? That is, if Joseph will be joining me?”
“Yes. Thank you, Your Grace,” Father Murray said.
“Thank you, Declan. That will be all for now.”
Father Thomas nodded and shut the door.
“I understand you’ve settled into your rooms. Is everything in order?” Bishop Avery asked.
“With respect, Your Grace, it would be best if I could take Liam to and from appointments without restraints or an armed escort.”
Bishop Avery put down his pen. “Request denied.”
“Damn it, we must show good faith or the peace process is doomed.”
Bishop Avery frowned.
“I apologize, Your Grace.” Father Murray pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding. He didn’t do well on shorted sleep—never had, and it was only getting worse as he got older.
Don’t fuck this up. Do you want to end up in that padded room?
“It’s been a difficult day.”
Don’t fuck this up. Do you want to end up in that padded room?
“It’s been a difficult day.”
“Heightened security levels are in effect for your safety. The fact that you’re living in that suite against my better judgment is concession enough.”
“Liam has resided at my sister’s house for two weeks. There’s not been a single incident. Not one. I’ve observed him since he was a lad of thirteen. I’m in no danger.”
Bishop Avery folded his hands together on top of the heavy oak desk. “Why is this issue so important?”
“He was interred in Long Kesh and at Malone. Psychologically—”
“I’ve read the reports,” Bishop Avery said. “I still don’t understand the problem.”
Have you not visited the prisons? Do you not have the slightest idea of what they’re like?
Father Murray paused to get some control over his emotions. Certain newscasters liked to compare the facilities where Irish political prisoners were kept to comfortable hotels, but he didn’t know of anyone who could do so after looking into the eyes of anyone unfortunate enough to have been interred in one of them for any length of time. “If he is treated like a prisoner it will affect the results.”
Father Murray paused to get some control over his emotions. Certain newscasters liked to compare the facilities where Irish political prisoners were kept to comfortable hotels, but he didn’t know of anyone who could do so after looking into the eyes of anyone unfortunate enough to have been interred in one of them for any length of time. “If he is treated like a prisoner it will affect the results.”
“You assured me that the strip search incident was an unusual circumstance.”
Father Murray said, “My recommendations shouldn’t have been ignored. I told them not to do it.”
“That was an unfortunate error. However, Father Conroy has since reported that Mr. Kelly was agitated and confrontational during the medical examination.”
“He was terrified. I’d be frightened too if I’d gone through what he has,” Father Murray said. “Could someone please speak to Gerry about his bedside manner? He threatened to sedate the lad against his will. I understand Gerry isn’t used to dealing with the living, but that was too far even for him.”
“All right. I’ll have Declan talk to him.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Father Murray said. “I’ve another request.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like a list of the tests to be performed. It will decrease the lad’s anxiety.”
“Why?”
There came a knock on the door and Father Thomas entered with a tray containing a teapot covered with a brown cosy, sugar and milk, spoons and two white porcelain cups with saucers. He set the tray on top of Bishop Avery’s desk and asked, “Will you need anything else, Your Grace?”
“I believe that is everything. Thank you,” Bishop Avery said.
“Then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Declan,” Bishop Avery said.
Father Murray exchanged nods with Father Thomas and waited until the door clicked closed to continue. “It has been demonstrated that the Fey cannot be photographed without their consent. We don’t know whether or not other results can be affected. We must have Liam’s full cooperation if we’re to get useful data.”
“Has Mr. Kelly indicated that he won’t cooperate?” Bishop Avery poured milk into the first cup and paused with a questioning look.
Father Murray declined with a shake of the head. “I didn’t say that.” He sighed. “Look, we must admit that we don’t know what we’re doing. The Fey are not the Fallen.”
“Perhaps.” Bishop Avery picked up the white porcelain teapot. Steam arose from the spout as he poured, and the scent of strong black tea soon joined that of the incense. “However, our policy in the past has been that they be numbered among the angelic host who chose to remain neutral in Heaven’s conflict with Lucifer. That they were banished to earth as a result.” Bishop Avery offered a steaming cup of tea. “Therefore, there are those who say the Fey are justifiably classified as Fallen. Neutrality in God’s war is much the same as supporting evil. If God saw fit to cast them out of Heaven, then the answer is obvious. Regrettable, perhaps, but obvious.”
Father Murray accepted the cup and focused on adding sugar to his tea to buy a short pause. “That is one theory,” he said, taking a sip and feeling the warm liquid make its way to his stomach. He felt better already. “However, the Fey don’t regard themselves as angels. Nor do they mention having been cast from Heaven, let alone that they might have ever seen it. Surely if—”
“If the Fey are designated a new category of lesser Fallen, then a gradual policy change is possible without the drastic consequences of an open admission of wrong-doing. This has been posed by members of the council as the solution to the dilemma the Church now faces.”
“Is it a solution we seek? Or the truth?”
Bishop Avery’s cup let out a hard clink as it hit the saucer resting on his desk. “This is a very delicate matter, Joseph. All the options must be carefully considered. A case-by-case plea for mercy can be posited for judgments upon the Fey. The peace agreement could have a chance of going forward. Also, if it is found that the children of the Fey can accept God’s grace, their status can be altered. They can be counted human should they convert and remain active members of the Church.”
“With due respect, Your Grace, what does that mean?”
“It means we must remember our priorities. Saving lives and souls, the welfare of nations as well as the Holy Mother Church are all far more important than a debate over semantics.”
Am I actually hearing this?
Father Murray thought.
From Bishop Avery of all people?
“Semantics? You honestly believe I retired from my position over semantics?”
Father Murray thought.
From Bishop Avery of all people?
“Semantics? You honestly believe I retired from my position over semantics?”
Bishop Avery took another sip of tea. His expression was carefully controlled. That alone was a signal to Father Murray that Bishop Avery didn’t actually approve of the proposal any more than he did. “No, I don’t believe you retired over semantics,” Bishop Avery said. “You are—were one of the best Guardians we’ve ever had. It would be foolish to dismiss your theory outright.” He looked up from his tea. “There is something I wish to divulge. Alone and in this room. May I count upon your discretion?”
“Of course.”
“I grew up in a small village in County Down. My father kept sheep in the Mourne Mountains, you know. Like many boys, I spent more than one rough night alone with the flock in the hills as a lad. I’ve seen things. As we all have. But I’m almost certain I met a púca one night. I’d heard things earlier in the night and was frightened. A tall, dark man appeared out of the gloom. It was a relief. Friendly, he was. Joined me at my fire. I shared what little food I had. We swapped stories for hours. Then he left, and I never saw him again. Until yesterday evening, that is. At the Giant’s Ring.”
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