Bill Franks: Jesuit

“Now,” said Ignatious, his voice calm as usual. “Touch her Father. You want to, don’t you? She’s not too old for you is she, Father? I know you like them quite a bit younger.”

As Ignatious spoke, the priest began to run his hands over the imprisoned woman; tenderly at first and then more vigorously, kneading the firm flesh, squeezing at the exposed breasts. The thing he wanted most in the world at that time was to get onto the woman, get inside her. His lust was a raging inferno.

“No, Father,” the quiet voice again. “You cannot have intercourse with her. To touch is sufficient. Better than your dreams, Father; your fantasies as you lie in bed. This is the real thing. Enjoy it while you can.”

He watched as the inflamed priest extracted his lustful pleasure from Sallie, touching wherever he could, his desire reaching fever point. He turned to the Jesuit, with eyes pleading to be allowed to complete the act.

The stare that returned was cold and hard. “You are a disgraceful sinner, Father McCahill. Your memory has told me that this is your third parish and that you have been moved due to your activities with those whom you are sworn to protect. Age and marital status have meant nothing to you, have they? You have preyed on those unfortunate beings and satisfied your evil urges.”

Father McCahill turned away from the still smiling Sallie, and dropped to his knees in front of Brother Saviour. Holding his arms upwards, his hands clasped, he begged for forgiveness. Ignatious, however, was not in a forgiving mood and castigated him further until the wretch was in a blubbering heap face-down on the cold, stone floor.

“Get up now,” commanded Ignatious. “I want you to go into your garden and pick me some flowers.” Ridiculous though this sounded at a time like this, the priest raised himself to his feet and listened as Ignatious detailed the varieties he required. “Bring them to me together with a bowl of boiled water. Go now. Hurry!” he said.

Father McCahill rushed to the door, pulled at a small stone set in the wall near to the doorway and hurried through as soon as enough space was cleared. The door closed to on his exit.

Turning to the prostrate woman, Ignatious said: “Sallie. I want you to do something for me.”

The lascivious smile returned as she looked toward him. “Yes. Anything.” Now is the time. Now he will come to me!

“I want you to phone a mutual acquaintance. Will you do that?”

“Yes. Yes.” Hurry, my God. I need you. ”

Reaching inside Sallie’s handbag, he found the mobile and turned it on.

“What is your ID, Sallie?” She offered it up immediately. “6742” Ignatious punched in the code and waited for a line.

“Tell me the home number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said then. Again, the number was offered without delay. On hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get Mrs. Sampler here, urgently,” he commanded in his quiet voice.

Bethany’s voice came through clearly so that Ignatious was able to hear but not quite make out the words said. “Hello. Beth Sampler speaking.”

“Oh, hello, Bethany,” opened Sallie, as though speaking to a life-long friend. At the other end of the line, Bethany froze, recognising whom this was. “Graham is on his way here and he wants you to meet up with him. Now. It’s very important.”

“Very good, Sallie,” murmured Ignatious.

Bethany forced herself to speak through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t he tell me that himself when he phoned a quarter of an hour ago?”

Unfazed, Sallie continued: “I’ve only just contacted him and he didn’t have time to get back to you. He asked me to give you a call.”

Asked her to contact me ? thought Bethany, infuriated. “Where are you and why do you need me there?” she asked, icily.

“I am at the church of St. Cecelia’s in Pangbourne. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes I do. Now, why am I wanted?” asked Bethany sternly.

“Oh, I think you know that,” came the mocking reply. “We both know what we need to talk about.” A loud click told Ignatious that Bethany had slammed the phone down. He took the mobile from the smiling Sallie. “That was very good, Sallie. Very good indeed.”

Just then, the chastened Father McCahill returned with a steel bowl containing steaming water and carrying the required flowers in a pocket of his priestly gown. “Where shall I put these, Brother,” he asked, his eyes diverted to the floor in deep humility.

“Put them on that small table in the corner, there and then kneel and pray beside the young woman that you have just defiled.”

“Yes, Brother,” he said, almost in tears as he shuffled speedily to the table. “Please give me your forgiveness and allow me into Heaven. I am wretched. I am a sinner most foul. I beg your absolution.”

“Do as I say,” said Ignatious in return.

The priest hurried to carry out his orders, ending as instructed, on his knees by Sallie’s position.

Scooping up the petals from the table, Ignatious placed them into the bowl and, using one of the ancient implements, began to stir them in one direction and then the other until the water became a deep rose colour.

In order to allow the poison, for that was what he had brewed, to settle, he had to let it cool. Turning to the praying priest, he told him to bring the woman into the secret room when she arrived, which would be in about forty-five minutes. The intonation of the prayers hummed on, the whispering of the ghosts adding to the eeriness of the occasion.

Whilst the mixture was cooling, Ignatious addressed Sallie again:

“Tell me the mobile number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said. Again, the number was offered without delay. Ignatious punched in the given digits and, on hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get him here,” he commanded.

As the sound of Graham came to Sallie, she spoke: “Hello, Graham. I was just wondering how you were. I saw you climbing the fence but didn’t know if you had made it. Are you okay?”

Graham was astounded to hear Sallie’s voice; he really thought she had perished in the horror at the park. “Sallie?” he said, asking the unnecessary question. “Sallie? Is that you?”

“Yes. Yes, darling it is me. I was rescued by the Jesuit and he now has me held captive.”

“What?” thundered Graham. “Where? Where, Sallie. Where is he holding you?”

Sallie faked a tremulous voice. “He has me in St. Cecelia’s, Graham. Please, come quickly. I think he’s going to kill me!”

There was no time to think; no time to consider the situation. “I’m on my way now. Hold tight and don’t do anything to upset him.”

“Graham. Please, come alone. He’s insisted on that.”

“Right — anything. Just stay calm.”

“He says if you come, he will explain things to you and let me go. All he wants is his freedom.”

“Freedom? I’ll kill the bastard!” he hissed and then hung up.

Ignatious was delighted with the unprompted story. “Excellent, Sallie!” he said. “That was first class.” The mumbling of the penitent priest continued, unabated. The intensity of the wailing sprits increased. Ignatious wondered if the others were able to hear the unnerving sounds.

While awaiting the arrival of Bethany, Ignatious picked up a knife-like instrument, ancient but rust free, and began to clear one of the stems brought in by the priest, taken from a rose bush that bore the deepest burgundy flower the Jesuit had ever seen. He carefully stripped away the sharp thorns until just two remained, one near to the top of the stem and the other an equal distance from the bottom. He then cut the stem into two pieces of around six inches each. Satisfied with the result, he placed them both into the bowl of thickening poison, ensuring that the thorns were covered.