James Becker - The Messiah Secret

The pain was instant and startling as the twin blades closed together, cutting deep, and despite the gag, he screamed, the sound emerging as a muffled howl. Tears streamed down his face. For several seconds he couldn’t even see his image in the mirror, then he blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes.

The loose flap of flesh was still attached, still hanging from the rest of his ear. He knew he’d have to do it again. He took several deep breaths, then positioned the scissors once more. This time, he closed his eyes before he applied pressure to the handles.

He heard a distinct ‘crunch’ as the scissors sliced through the remaining flesh, then a faint wet slap as the top of his ear landed in the sink in front of him. He didn’t look down as he was trying very hard not to scream again, and his eyes had once more filled with tears. But, he thought, as his vision slowly cleared, at least the worst of it was over. Or perhaps not. He glanced down at the soldering iron, its tip smoking ominously.

His ear was bleeding copiously, the amputation of the remaining flap of tissue having cut through several blood vessels. Killian dabbed at it with a piece of cotton cloth, which was instantly soaked with blood, turning a deep red. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the soldering iron. As he lifted it past his face he could feel the radiant heat on his cheek. He hesitated for barely a second, then touched the tip of the implement to the top of his ear closest to his head, where the blood flow was most pronounced.

This pain was different, even worse than before, a searing, burning agony that seemed unbearable. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Suddenly Killian felt he couldn’t breathe. He reached up and tore the rough gag from his mouth, gulped in a lungful of air and screamed. After a few seconds, the pain faded and he felt more in control. He looked in the mirror again. The treatment, such as it was, did seem to be working. The blood flow had clearly diminished, at least around the fresh, straight cut he’d made with the scissors.

Gritting his teeth, Killian lifted the soldering iron again and pressed it once more to the top of his ear. And once more he screamed.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he’d managed to stop all the bleeding, though the side of his head felt as if it was on fire. The wound to the top of his ear looked appalling, a rough crust of red and black burnt flesh, where the tip of the soldering iron had done its work. He hoped it would now start to heal.

Gingerly, taking infinite care, he applied a salve to the injury. That cooled the burning sensation, at least a little, but did nothing for the pain. He took a clean cotton pad, rested it gently against his ear and cautiously wrapped a bandage around his head to hold it in place, grimacing as the pressure increased. Finally he swallowed half a dozen painkillers — three times the recommended dose, but he needed something to reduce the agony.

He walked out of the bathroom — he’d clean up the mess in the sink later, when he felt better — and stumbled down the corridor to the lounge, grabbing a bottle of whisky and a glass. He slumped into a recliner near the window, poured a generous two fingers into the glass and downed it in a couple of gulps. The fiery liquid seared his throat as he swallowed it, then settled warmly, comfortingly in his stomach. He eased backwards, turning his head to avoid his torn ear touching the fabric of the chair, and lay there, glad his ordeal was over.

As the painkillers started to kick in, the throbbing ache from the side of his head began to subside. Killian thought back over the events of the last few weeks, wondering if he could have handled things differently. He shook his head, and instantly wished he hadn’t as a fresh spike of pain lanced through his head.

It had begun a couple of years earlier, with a visit from a former colleague, Father Mitchell, a deeply troubled man who’d long been aware of Killian’s encyclopedic knowledge of Church history, its doctrine and practices, and without doubt this had influenced his decision to break the sacred trust of the confessional.

Killian closed his eyes and replayed the conversation in his mind.

‘Do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’ Mitchell had asked him.

‘Of course. Anything learned in the confessional is to be kept between you, your parishioner and God.’

‘Do you think there are any circumstances when that trust can be breached? Suppose one of your parishioners confesses to murder? What then?’

‘The position of the Church is unequivocal. What’s said in the confessional is sacred. You should encourage your parishioner to surrender to the police, of course, and confess to his crime. But you yourself may not breach that trust and approach the authorities.’

Mitchell had nodded, because he had already known the orthodox answers to those questions. He’d paused and Killian had been struck by his haunted, almost terrified look.

‘Then you must be my confessor, Michael. Hear my confession. Right here, right now.’ Mitchell leaned across the table and seized his arm with a grip so firm it actually hurt.

‘Very well,’ Killian had said, reluctantly.

Mitchell had explained that a couple of weeks earlier, a man named JJ Donovan had entered the confessional box at his church in Monterey. He had seemed over-excited, hyped up about something and eager to talk. Donovan had followed his usual routine, confessing a fairly dull litany of what he perceived to be his sins, and Father Mitchell had granted him absolution, just as he’d done on previous occasions. But then, instead of ending the session as usual, he’d asked Donovan directly if there was some other matter troubling him, something that might account for his very different, almost elated, mood.

What Donovan had told him had shocked him into stunned silence; a silence that had lasted so long Donovan had eventually knocked on the pierced wooden divider between the two sections of the confessional and asked if he was still there.

‘I told Donovan that what he was planning to do was a mortal sin, a blasphemy of such appalling magnitude that nobody would ever be able to forgive him. And I absolutely forbade him to even contemplate proceeding with his plans,’ Mitchell told Killian. ‘What stunned me most was that he apparently thought I’d be pleased with what he was intending.’

‘What was it that so shocked you?’ Killian asked quietly.

So Mitchell told him, and what he said was so extraordinary that Killian felt the blood drain from his face.

‘Dear God in heaven,’ he had whispered, and then pulled himself together. ‘Tell me everything you know about that man,’ he’d said. ‘His address, telephone number, whatever you have.’

Mitchell had passed across a sheet of paper.

‘God will reward your courage,’ Killian had told him. ‘Now you must leave everything to me. If Donovan approaches you again, about anything at all, let me know immediately.’

Killian had prayed for guidance that night, and by the following morning the way ahead had been clear. Donovan himself wasn’t the problem. Whatever he had found could also be discovered by others, now or sometime in the future, and that could have disastrous consequences. The only way to achieve a lasting solution was to allow Donovan to locate the relic. And then it would have to be utterly destroyed, as would everybody involved in its search.

He would have to break the first commandment; Killian knew this. But he also knew that he’d have God’s forgiveness. Because the reality was that the killing of one or two men — or even the deaths of hundreds or thousands of people — was completely inconsequential, totally insignificant, in comparison with the stakes he was playing for.