TWENTY-SEVEN
Time, that great deceiver. One moment it moves like molasses. Minute hands on a clock face taking an eternity to rotate three hundred and sixty degrees. Then, while your guard is down, just as you have settled into its hypnotic arms and let yourself be carried alone at its leisurely pace, in the blink of an eye it would flow like water through your hands and no matter how you protested this sudden change it would slip through your fingers until, before you know it, it was all but gone.
And so time had played its trick on Father Nichols over these last few days, lulling him into a false sense of security. It had slowed to a crawl, each minute seemed an hour, each hour a day. Until it had succeeded in convincing him it would stretch on for as long as he needed it to.
It was something he had grown used to living in the bowels of the Vatican. For time there was a law unto itself. As when it wasn't standing still, could always be counted on to run so slowly as to make no difference. The place had stood for hundreds of years hardly changing much at all, untouched as it was by the outside world where time played mischief with stone and bone alike.
When Nichols had first arrived back in England, he was still very much running on Vatican time, for he knew the bureaucratic wheels there turned as slowly today as they had down through the centuries and as thus it was pointless to will them to turn any faster now that he was here in the outside world. He knew this all too well and had tried to prepare himself for it, but still now that he was out here he couldn't quite stop himself from fretting.
After all, things were different when you were out here on the front line, out in the open and potentially at the mercy of God only knew what. Waiting, waiting as the Cardinals met in dusty rooms taking their time as they always did to discuss the fate of others. But this time it was Nichols’ fate they were debating, his and the other poor souls charged with the care and protection of the main topic of conversation; Larry McCulloch.
But as the hours had stretched into days, time slowed out here in the 'real' world too. And Father Nichols was its fool. Believing as he did in its promise of never ending minutes, all the time he needed to save McCulloch from the darkness. One minute coming after the other until they made one bloated hour after another. For as long (it had seemed) as the Priest needed it to tick on.
It was a seduction he willingly relented to. As the armies of damnation hadn't come to break down the door, to kill them all and drag Larry McCulloch off to the hell he so richly deserved. So the initial fretting had soon given way to unease which in turn had soothed into a comfortable tedium. Nichols, without realizing it, had let himself be seduced into thinking; Tick, as the saying went, would always follow tock, etc, etc.
It was a nice dream while it lasted, but one from which Larry McCulloch had been quite literally dragged from no more than an hour ago. And thus Father Nichols had awoken to find that time had grown tired of sloth and had, on a whim, opted instead for warp factor nine. And performing a deft sleight of hand trick, had all but run out in the blink of a bleary eye.
And with it the sudden realization that time was now smoke, it had paralysed his usually acute senses into numbing inaction. His mind was awash with a million different thoughts at once. Each vying in vain for his attention, but with such fury that try as he might he couldn't grasp one.
All his semi-comatose state would allow him to do was just stand there with his heart in his boots looking out through a gap in the living room curtains to the approaching dawn outside, which was developing, as if for dramatic effect, into an ominous red colour. Time was a slippery thing now so he couldn't tell if he had been standing there, neither use nor ornament, for mere seconds or an hour or more. It was all a nonsense now but he just couldn't drag himself away from the window.
What was it he was looking for out there in the dwindling night? Was he keeping watch for death’s imminent arrival? Would it really come so soon? Or was his vigil in some vain hope of divine intervention come riding swiftly on the dawn’s coat tails to save the day?
He just didn't know.
Through the mire of indecision he was up to his neck in, Nichols became vaguely aware of Larry muttering something or other in the room behind him, but that could have been a million miles away for all he could gather as it barely registered here in his own little world by the window where only the oncoming blood red dawn seemed real.
Then a blur of movement in the shadows of the garden outside caught his eye, he looked down to see a scrawny black and white cat come darting out from behind the house, it ran across the unkempt lawn and cleared the hedge in one graceful bound and then sprinted off across the road before being swallowed up by what was left of the night.
“Someone's got the right idea,” he half heard himself say then returned his gaze to the hypnotic sky above, still waiting for either death or the celestial cavalry to arrive. More movement behind him this time almost dragged his wandering thoughts back to the matter at hand. Ania Peroni this time, talking in her heavy Italian accent into her radio, each sentence punctuated by a burst of static, then Lewis answering but he couldn't quite catch what they were discussing.
At least Peroni, the seasoned pro that she was, had sprung into action when Larry had dragged them all out of bed with his babbling of the American's late night call. She had despatched Jeff at once to find the nearest petrol station and fuel up the car, ready for any necessary quick getaway. And Lewis to the kitchen where they had the CCTV monitors set up, he was there now on the lookout for any mischief brewing outside, but so far, deserting cats aside, all was well out there.
“Larry! Do us all a favour,” Peroni pleaded. “Put some clothes on, please!” She just couldn't stand having to watch him pacing back and forth in his underwear any more, which she had no choice in doing for the best part of half an hour now, which was thirty minutes too long in anyone's book.
The old crook hadn't been able to sit still for more than ten seconds since he had dragged her and Nichols out of bed after his call from the American, and in his hast for action he had neglected to put on any clothes. He barely seemed to notice her at all and just kept crewing his nails and muttering under his breath, all the while wearing out the living rooms already threadbare carpet with his constant pacing. Pausing only briefly to glance incredulously at Father Nichols who was still standing at the window staring blankly into the darkness outside looking for God only knew what.
Ania was concerned at the priest’s reaction to this new turn of events, he had warned it might happen, but now it had he hadn't said more than two words to her since they all came downstairs, and it had been left to her to organise Lewis and Jeff, and try, so far without little success to get anything of use out of Larry. She desperately needed a caffeine hit to settle her frayed nerves and more importantly clear her head as so far she had twice asked Larry a question in her native Italian, which she always did when she was tired or stressed and not thinking straight like now. She had enough to think about without having to concentrate on speaking in English, which was causing a good five second delay in between thought and what eventually came out of her mouth.
She needed coffee and lots of it, but first she needed Larry McCulloch in trousers.
“Larry, put some trousers on,” she tried again. “You'll catch your death...” This at least stopped him in his tracks, not the best choice of words she could have picked but at least they were in English and had got his attention. He looked down at himself as if only just now realizing his state of undress, then without a word left the room. Peroni heard him stomping up the stairs, and with him gone she turned to Nichols who was still meditating by the window. She was almost loathed to break the silence but knew it would only be a matter of a minute or two before Larry would be back down stairs, hopefully trousered, and no doubt demanding action.
“Father?” She said softly, Nichols didn't turn away from the window but Peroni definitely heard him sign and then he gave a slight nod of the head. “What do you think, sir?” She asked and could already hear McCulloch making his way out of his room and onto the landing, he seemed to have gone into the bathroom which at least gave her a little more time to get through to the priest.
“I think,” Nichols replied after an age, his voice laced with fatigue. “I think we are in trouble, Ania. A lot
of trouble.” It was a plain statement of fact, said without emotion and again to his reflection in the window as if he couldn’t bear to say it to her face. Peroni had known it deep down, but hearing Nichols verbalize it still made her heart skip a beat.
“Well?” It was Larry, she hadn't even heard him come back down the stairs but there he was standing in the doorway now in a crumpled shirt and thankfully trousers. “What are we going to do?” He wanted to know.
Again Nichols didn't move to reply, it seemed to Ania as if he felt that turning around and actually facing the problem might just about make it all too real for the priest, and somewhere deep done she sympathized, even though it wasn't an option she could afford to subscribe to, if any of them were going to get out of here in one piece.
“Hello?” Larry said in a condescending tone. He moved into the room with a face like thunder.
More to break the tension than anything, Peroni asked; “Larry, you are sure that is all the American said?”
Larry stopped mid stride. “Yes, how many fucking times?” He replied looking annoyed. “Did you say your prayers tonight. That's all he said.”
“And it wasn't Whitaker?” She asked.
“I told you,” Larry spoke to her as if she were twelve. “It was a yank. The yank. The one you're all so fucking scared of, I imagine.”
“Okay,” she said defensively and waited for Nichols to wade in with something constructive, but instead he said obliquely.
“Well, did you?”
Peroni and Larry exchanged a look.
“Did I what?” Larry replied testily.
“Did you say your prayers tonight?” Nichols asked.
“Jesus!” Larry threw his arms up in dismay. “Are you actually going to come up with anything worth a shit, or are you just going to stare out of that fucking window all fucking night?” He turned away from the priest and aimed his tirade at Peroni. “Normally, I can't shut any of you lot up, but now I need answers? Not a fucking peep worth a shit. Now I asked what the fuck are we going to do now?” He took his mobile out of his pocket and waved it in Peroni's face. “The bastard has got my number!”
“He can't trace it, you weren’t on long enough,” she replied, trying to refrain from smacking him in the mouth. “I suppose he got it from Whitaker.”
“Yeah, that twat!” Larry spat bitterly.
“So, about Whitaker..”
“Tommy Whitaker is dead.” Nichols cut Peroni off mid-sentence, and with that finally came away from the window to face them, his face grey.
“He might have cut a deal with Randall,” Peroni offered trying to remain positive.
The priest shook his head, his face was a mask of determination now. “No, Tommy Whitaker is dead,” he stated again. “Randall has found him and now Larry is next.”
“Great!” Larry exclaimed. “You know I'm standing right here?”
This won little more than a shrug from Nichols. Peroni studied the priest. How old was he? She wondered. It was only now she noticed just how fragile the man looked, almost ancient at the moment, with the weight of the world of his shoulders, and it was a burden he wasn't bearing well. She tried not to show it, but seeing him like this unnerved her more than the prospect of Randall turning up in the door step unannounced with the whole of hell at his back. This old man who she had trusted and relied upon seemed so brittle right now. He caught her perusal and could clearly see the disappointment in her eyes, they both looked away instantly with the weakest of smiles.
“Right!” Peroni said clapping her hands in an attempt to muster up some enthusiasm. “Larry, think about it, there's no way he could trace the call that quickly. Besides, he called you.”
“Yeah,” Larry said taking some comfort from the fact. “Of course, he was on five seconds tops.” He shook his head at his own paranoia.
“That's right.” Peroni confirmed.
“Normally I would agree,” Nichols said, sucking the life from the room with his tone. “But I'm afraid we are about as far away from normal as it's possible to get.”
Peroni bit her lip as Larry's face dropped again, so much for trying to boost morale, she thought bitterly as a dozen different swear words raced through her mind, mostly Italian, but she choked them back, just.
“So?” Larry looked frantically between the two of them. “Can he trace the fucking call or not!?”
“I honestly don't know,” Nichols replied, his voice a ghost.
Peroni's heart sank. What do you do? She thought. When the man with all the answers suddenly has none?
“Fuck this!” Larry exclaimed and threw the offending mobile down onto the floor. “I ain't taking any chances.” Then proceeded to stamp on the phone repeatedly until it was in a dozen pieces.
“Larry!” Peroni snapped, her nerves were so frayed she had to screw her eyes shut just to concentrate on speaking English. “It's a little late for that,” she said in a softer tone after the pointless display was over. But Larry just kick the largest piece away which clattered against the wall where it broke in half again much to his obvious satisfaction.
“Mother of God,” Peroni said under her breath and unclipped the radio from her belt and brought it up to her lips. “Lewis, this is Peroni. Get Jeff on the radio, I want him back ASAP. We are leaving.”
Lewis' voice cracked through the radio in response. “Roger that boss.”
“Finally!” Larry said with no little relief. “Where to?”
“For now, anywhere but here. Just to be on the safe side, since no one really knows what we are up against.” The remark was aimed at Nichols, in the hope it would sting him out of his stupor, she looked at the priest who nodded to her conceding the point perhaps but still had nothing to offer. She didn't care, it felt good to be taking control of the situation at last herself, someone she knew she could rely on.
“Larry moved towards the door but stopped mid-stride. “You sure about Tommy?” He asked Peroni. Not that he cared in particular, it was just that the priest had said he was next in line. “I mean,” he continued, more to convince himself that anyone, “That guy can talk himself out of most things.” Sure he knew he was fishing for a life line, but if he thought the lawyer could talk himself out of a death sentence, then maybe he could do the same. It was a pretty thin straw, but he was going to grasp at it all the same.
“What's this?” Peroni asked with raised eyebrows, “A guilty conscience, Larry?”
“Bollocks,” came the reply.
That's more like it Peroni thought. “Tommy Whitaker is dead, or worse.” She said sounding just like Nichols.
“Oh, for Christ sake!” Larry looked to the heavens in dismay. No help there Peroni mused. “Will people stop saying that!” His tone edging again towards the desperate. “How many times? Dead, is fucking dead, and you won’t convince me otherwise. Now can we secure the mumbo-jumbo bullshit and get out of here?”
“We will,” Peroni replied, “just as soon as Jeff gets back with the car.” Then she couldn't help adding; “And on the 'dead is dead' part? Let us hope you never have to find out.”
He was about to reply when Peroni's radio sprung into life. “Boss, this is Lewis, I can't raise Jeff, over.”
“Perhaps he's driving,” Nichols offered.
“Maybe,” she said and switched the frequency on her radio to Jeff's channel. “Jeff, this is Peroni, do you copy? Over.”
The radio spat back static in reply. She tried again with growing unease. “Jeffrey, this is Peroni, do you copy? What is your twenty? Over.” But got nothing but more static in reply.
Had time run out so soon? Nichols felt a wave of fear rise up from his guts which had been twisted in a knot since he'd got up. Peroni was listening to the dead air coming from the radio with gritted teeth. Nichols so desperately wanted to help her but the fear had robbed him of any cogent thought, he cursed his inaction but was a slave to it never the less.
It was Larry who spoke first. “We need to get out of here, now!”
“No, just wait,” Peroni said gathering her thoughts. She brought the radio back up to her lips to speak, then with a shake of the head she changed her mind and switched channels once more. “Lewis, keep trying to raise Jeff. And I want you to do a quick sweep of the outside of the house. Once around, gun drawn. Do you understand?
There was a long pause, no doubt as Lewis digested this new turn of events, then. “Roger that, Lewis out.” And with that they heard him jog out of the kitchen, through the hall and to the front door. “Jeff, this is Lewis, come in mate, over,” then the front door closed with an ominous bang and was locked.
“Larry, get your stuff together.” Peroni instructed. “Father, you too.”
“You don't have to tell be twice, sister,” Larry said as he darted out of the living room and upstairs to pack.
Once again this left Peroni alone in the room with Father Nichols. Both of them knew there had been a power shift in their relationship. Nichols, for all his knowledge of what they might be facing had to relent that they had clearly strayed into her territory now and she was handling it far better than he. The Priest felt a twinge of guilt, not for his impotence but for the fact that he was a little grateful to relinquish the responsibility of leadership to another.
“You once said to me Father, that things could get very bad, very quickly if he found us. Is this what you meant?” Peroni's tone was harsh, almost accusatory.
All Nichols could do was nod in was of response. But that wasn't good enough for her. “Could he have found us so quickly?”
“I... I really don't know, Ania...” His voice faltered for a moment, what could he say? That this was precisely what he had warned the Vatican would happen if they didn't move fast enough. He could have told her this wasn't his fault for all the good it would do. That if he had more time to prepare, he wouldn’t be so useless to her now. He was caught in the grip of that same fear that had taken a hold of him all those years ago and he felt just as helpless in the face of the unknown. “I needed more time,” he finally added. “To prepare.”
“Prepare what?” Peroni wanted to know.
“Our defences. You know as well as I do guns and Lewis' coffee aren't going to stop Randall if he gets here before we get out.”
She almost cracked a smile. Lewis coffee was notoriously bad, especially to her Italian taste buds.
“If only I had a little more time..” he said again.
“Well you don't. Whatever you had in mind, you'll just need to wing it.” She paused her mind whirring then said. “If we don't get out of here in time... Do you have something that can help us?”
Nichols exhaled and looked away from her. Trapped here, cut off from help, that was the nightmare scenario he had so successfully put out of his mind since they had arrived. If only they had listened to him, they could all be away safe with Larry in the Vatican, safe from the collector and on familiar ground.
“Father?” Peroni pressed him. “Do you have a plan if this all goes wrong?”
“Perhaps,” he said to the floor unable to meet her gaze.
Before Peroni could press him further her radio burst into life. “Boss, it's Lewis.” Even over the radio they could both hear the relief in his voice. “I'm out front in the street. Everything's clear and guess what? Jeff's car has just appeared at the top of the road, he should be here in a mo'. Hope he's remembered my doughnuts, over.”
“Oh, thank god,” Peroni's shoulders physically sagged, she raised the radio but didn't take her eyes off the priest.