Stephen Irwin - The Darkening

‘I’m sorry, Pritam. I don’t think we can tell you why we’re really here,’ said Nicholas.

Pritam felt the veins in his temples throb.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘You won’t believe us.’

‘Won’t believe him,’ clarified Suzette, pointing at Nicholas. ‘I thought it was a bad idea to trouble you with our. . suppositions.’

Pritam regarded them both.

‘It is quite a dismal night out. And neither of you — forgive me for this assumption — look the sort to prefer the polite company of an Indian priest over a night on the couch in front of Californication . So this is somewhat important, yes?’

Nicholas met Pritam’s gaze and nodded.

Pritam inclined his head.

‘And does it have anything to do with Gavin Boye’s suicide?’

Nicholas and Suzette exchanged a glance. Nicholas nodded again. ‘And Eleanor Bretherton,’ he said.

Pritam let out a breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose. The codeine was beginning to work, but was a long way from making him feel sociable. He shifted in his chair, unable to get comfortable.

‘Did you know that I was offered a Rhodes scholarship?’ he asked. ‘So I’m not an idiot. Well, I went to seminary here instead of going to Oxford, so some would argue that does make me an idiot. Regardless, I cannot think of any connection between Gavin Boye and a long-dead patron of this church.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Nicholas. ‘I don’t think you’re gonna fancy the one I’m about to tell you.’

Pritam smiled. ‘My father was fond of an old saying: when an elephant is in trouble, even a frog will kick him. You, my friend,’ he pointed at Nicholas, ‘look like you’re in ten different kinds of trouble. So may I suggest trying me.’

Nicholas looked at Suzette. Pritam saw her shake her head as a final discouragement. Nicholas ignored her.

‘Every twenty years or so,’ he began, ‘for the last hundred and twenty years at least, a local child — a child from around here in Tallong — has been murdered.’

Pritam nodded — go on.

‘The second-last murder was a childhood friend of ours, Tristram Boye,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Gavin Boye’s brother. He was killed in 1982. Tris was chased into the woods on Carmichael Road but found a few miles away with his. .’ Nicholas licked his dry lips, ‘. . with his throat cut. The last child murdered was the Thomas boy. He also had his throat slit.’

Pritam said nothing, but watched his guests. Suzette broke the silence.

‘We think the murders are connected,’ she said.

Pritam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which ones?’

‘All of them,’ replied Nicholas.

Pritam stopped moving in his chair.

‘Connected? Over a hundred and twenty years?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Or more,’ he said. ‘Maybe a hundred and fifty years.’

‘We should go,’ said Suzette.

Nicholas shook his head at his sister.

Pritam frowned. The news about the murders was new to him, an unpleasant surprise. Since he’d arrived in Tallong, he’d found it a pretty, hospitable, slightly dull suburb. But now a suggestion that the murders were not a string of chance happenings, but linked. . Maybe a few days ago, he’d have laughed this off. But his aching skull and the dark mood he’d felt since his evening alone in the church had punched down his sense of humour.

‘Are you talking about. . Are you suggesting ritual killings?’ he asked.

Nicholas watched him carefully.

‘Kind of,’ he replied.

Pritam nodded, and stared at the floor, deep in thought. The ticking of the mantel clock seemed suddenly loud. ‘I urge you to be very careful answering this next question,’ he said. ‘Are you also suggesting a connection between all these murders and this church?’

He realised he was gripping the arms of his chair tightly. He looked up at his guests; they’d both noticed the same thing.

‘No,’ said Nicholas slowly. ‘To her.’ He nodded at the leftmost photograph. It showed Reverend de Witt smiling beside dour Eleanor Bretherton as she laid the church’s foundation stone.

Pritam felt his headache returning like a flash tide and he closed his eyes at the pain.

‘Pritam?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing. ‘This is all a bit fantastical for me this evening. Perhaps. .’ He indicated the door.

‘Jesus, hear us out,’ said Nicholas.

Pritam blanched at the blasphemy.

‘Let’s go,’ said Suzette firmly, taking her brother’s arm. ‘Maybe another time, Reverend.’

Nicholas shook her grip off.

‘Pritam, we know it’s all pretty airy-fairy, but if you just let us look through your records-’

Pritam found his voice rising, riding the unwelcome wave of the headache, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Nicholas, you are suggesting cult murders, you’re suggesting some cover-up. It is insulting to my congregation, it’s insulting to Reverend Hird, and it’s insulting to me.’

‘I don’t give a fart about him or your congregation,’ said Nicholas. He jabbed a finger at the photograph of Eleanor Bretherton. ‘It’s her!’

Suzette yanked Nicholas out of his chair and dragged him to the door.

‘We’re sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m not sorry,’ snapped Nicholas, eyes locked on Pritam. ‘Maybe there is some cover-up!’

Pritam saw the wildness in Nicholas’s eyes. Maybe I was wrong , he thought. Maybe he is on drugs .

Suzette threw open the door and dragged Nicholas out into the drizzle, hissing unheard words at her brother.

‘No, it’s a fucking joke ,’ he snapped.

‘Good night,’ said Pritam, eyes hard.

‘Sorry,’ said Suzette, closing the door.

Nicholas seemed to think of something, and again slipped out of her grip and stuck his foot between the door and the jamb.

‘Please, Nicholas. .’ began Pritam, walking wearily to the door.

‘One last question and I’ll go.’

Pritam hesitated a moment, then waved his hand — fine.

‘How long has Hird been in Tallong?’ asked Nicholas.

Pritam took a breath, shook his head. ‘Thirty years or more.’

Nicholas nodded, eyes bright; Pritam could again see the pleasant young man who had looked so terrified at the sight of the Green Man.

‘Then get Hird to look at the photograph of Mrs Bretherton. Ask him if he remembers a seamstress named Mrs Quill. Quill, like feather. Will you do that?’

Pritam watched Nicholas for a long moment. He was a nice guy, he was sure, but looked on the edge of some very dark cliff.

‘You should consider getting some grief counselling, Nicholas.’

For some reason, Nicholas let out a bark of a laugh and withdrew his foot.

Pritam shut the door with a loud, solid click. Outside, retreating footsteps and the surf-like hush of rain. Already, his headache seemed to be withdrawing.

He went to the nearest window and eased aside the heavy tapestry curtains. Across the rain-shiny street, brother and sister hurried to their car. He heard their doors close, then the car start and take off. Soon, the only noise was his breathing, the tocking of the clock, the soft clicking of the bar heater element.

Pritam took a deep breath and walked over to the photograph of the Right Reverend de Witt and Eleanor Bretherton laying the foundation stone. The photograph had disturbed him since he first laid eyes on it. He’d always assumed it was because the church, now so solid and real, was in the photograph merely a slab; looking at the old photograph was like seeing an autopsy picture of a close acquaintance lying naked and too exposed. But now, fixing on the severe gaze that Eleanor Bretherton sent back through the glass and a hundred and thirty years, Pritam realised he might have been wrong. The reason the photograph was disturbing was her .