Louise Welsh - Death is a Welcome Guest

The old man was not in the chapel or his bedroom but Magnus heard voices in the study that had once been the butler’s refuge. He pressed his ear to the door. Father Wingate sounded composed, but his voice was grave. ‘I will offer to walk the route from his cell with him. He may not accept spiritual comfort, but regardless of his wishes I will say a prayer, committing his life to the Lord.’

An Irish voice said, ‘I would have thought he’d be headed for a warmer place.’ The stranger laughed, pleased with his joke.

Father Wingate said, ‘The devil is among us, that much is true.’

Magnus would have liked to have heard more but it was too risky, standing in the open hallway. He tried the door next to the office and discovered a large cupboard that might once have served as a pantry. He slipped inside and left the door slightly ajar. A sliver of light cut into the cupboard’s dark recess. Magnus wondered how they intended to execute Jeb and why they had gone to the trouble of making a stage. Who was the theatre for?

Cut and run , the treacherous voice whispered. Cut and run .

He was tempted to sit on the floor, but was wary of being ambushed by sleep and stood, leaning against the corner of the cupboard, his eyes trained on the small slice of hallway. Magnus was not sure how long he had been hiding there when he came to with a start. He had been in a half-doze, leaning with his face scrunched against the cupboard’s wall, listening to the faint rise and fall of voices; the distant hammering from the lawn.

The door of the office opened and Father Wingate said, ‘The house has been in continuous occupation since ancient times. It started as a simple settlement which grew into a castle. My ancestors built a manor house on the castle’s foundations some time around the 1600s. Of course it’s been much altered since then, but for centuries all the farms and homesteads in the district paid fealty to it.’

‘And it belonged to your family for all that time?’

‘Until I bequeathed it to the Church.’

‘So you speak with God as one Lord to another.’

‘No one is equal to God.’ Father Wingate’s voice was frosty.

‘You’ll have to forgive my sense of humour, Father.’ The man was unapologetic. ‘It’s not PC, but it’s helped me survive.’

Magnus caught a quick impression of dark hair and blue shirt as the stranger walked past the cupboard.

Father Wingate called, ‘Malachy?’

‘Yes?’ The man sounded impatient. He stepped back into Magnus’s line of vision. He was not as short as Magnus had anticipated, just an inch or two beneath his own height, he guessed, but stockier, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered in a way that made him look bullish and out of proportion. His blue dress shirt was more suited to a business suit than the pressed jeans he was wearing, but he had left the shirt untucked, to hide a weapon or in concession to a permanent post-apocalyptic dress-down Friday.

Father Wingate said, ‘You’ll remember to tell your men about distributing the punch? It’s always been the duty of the big house to offer some hospitality to the district. My mother used to arrange for urns of tea and fruit scones when she hosted the garden fête. Even after I handed the house over to the Church we held the occasional open day; tea for the grown-ups, orange juice for the children, that kind of thing.’

‘They’re not my men, but I’ll tell them.’

Father Wingate said, ‘I think alcohol will be the right thing on this occasion. Strong drink can be a great comfort.’

Malachy laughed. ‘I’ll say amen to that.’

Magnus waited until the sound of the newcomer’s boots had faded and then stole from the cupboard into Father Wingate’s office, closing the door gently behind him. The old man greeted him with a smile.

‘My son, we thought we had lost you.’ He slid the book in his hand back on to its shelf. ‘Have you encountered our visitors?’

‘I’ve been avoiding them.’ Magnus kept his voice low. ‘You said you’d give me time to prove Jeb innocent.’

‘Events have moved on.’

Father Wingate eased himself into the same high-backed chair he had insisted on, on the afternoon when Jacob had persuaded Magnus to stay and help with the harvest. He nodded towards an armchair.

Magnus ignored him and leaned against the desk where he could see the door. Father Wingate’s boyish smile was wide, but there was an excited edge to the priest that Magnus did not like. He said, ‘Why are you so keen to execute Jeb?’

‘I hope I’m not giving the impression of being over-eager.’ The priest was unfazed by the question. ‘Jacob acknowledged that the sweats were a sign that we should return to Old Testament times. He would approve of what we are doing.’

Jacob had used the phrase ‘Old Testament times’ in the cornfield when he had confided his doubts about Melody’s death, but he had been uneasy; weighed down by sorrow and responsibility. Magnus said, ‘Jacob might have feared a need for harsh punishment, but he would never have considered using it as entertainment. These men are building a stage on the lawn and you’re planning on serving refreshments.’

Father Wingate let out a scandalised laugh. ‘It does sound bad when you put it that way. But what you fail to recognise is that death can also be a joyous occasion.’

‘Joyous?’

‘We can incarcerate your friend indefinitely or we can grant him the opportunity to cleanse his sins and offer up his life as a sacrifice to God. Until recent times such occasions were always a public spectacle.’ Father Wingate’s voice turned grave. ‘It is a serious thing to take a life. The whole community must be involved. We are all guilty of survival.’

Magnus faltered, grasping for words the priest would understand.

‘Jeb maintains his innocence. He’s not Jesus Christ, he isn’t going to offer up his life to God. He’s more likely to go raving blasphemies.’

Father Wingate leaned forward. His face was sympathetic, as if Jeb were already dead and Magnus a bereaved relative. ‘Do not worry about your friend’s dignity. There are ways to ensure a solemn end.’

It was like talking to a madman. Magnus said, ‘What are you going to do? Hypnotise him? It’s possible that the person who really killed Jacob murdered other people too. Doesn’t that worry you?’

The old man clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. ‘Death is not as important as what comes afterwards. We had lost sight of that before God, in His mercy, chose to visit the sweats on us. I am eighty-two years old, but I remember my youth, my childhood, as if it were yesterday.’ The priest paused, as if he could see the house in full splendour. ‘Life is a blink of the eye, eternity is everlasting. Will you pray with me?’

Magnus pushed himself off the desk and stood up straight. ‘I’d rather get up on that platform with Jeb than go down on my knees with you. I didn’t agree with everything Jacob did, but he was a good man who was trying to build a community. If there’s an afterlife then he deserves to rest easy, but what you’re doing is enough to call him back from the dead.’

Father Wingate crossed his legs. ‘Jacob was a good man and he will have his resurrection, but he was only human. He believed that if we built a community people would come and join us. Malachy has taken a more dynamic approach. He has gone to the people.’

‘What people?’ Magnus had started to pace the floor, moving like he did on stage. It was a waste of energy, but anger had blasted him with adrenalin and it was impossible to sit still.

‘Malachy and his group have been touring the district looking for somewhere to settle. There are pockets of survivors all around the parish.’