TWENTY-SIX
“Can I get you anything else, Father?”
The young priest didn’t answer so the production assistant stepped out of the hotel room and onto the large balcony where he was sitting at a table reading from his bible. Well the bible that had been provided for him by the production.
Susan Rodriguez stopped and had to shield her eyes against the bright mid-morning sunlight which was in stark contrast to the cool air-conditioned gloom of the hotel suite. She nearly staggered straight back in again as the wall of heat hit her a second later.
She was about to speak again but had a sudden feeling she was intruding on the priest who seemed deep in thought or perhaps prayer. Out of his sombre clerical clothing and dressed casually in a linen shirt and canvas trousers one could have easily mistaken him for a tourist.
Rodrigues had been working for Michael Davis productions for almost five months now and the up and coming show would be her second. It had been her job to chaperone Father Winthorpe in the days leading up to the previous event as she now did for this Father Ross.
But as with the other priest she would steadfastly refused to go anywhere near that unholy sideshow itself. Her job as ‘talent’ liaison ended the moment she put the priest into the car and he was driven off to where the show was being held.
She knew it was somewhat hypocritical but keeping her distance from the show itself helped her feel less culpable in what happened afterwards. She wouldn’t even watch the thing on the computer and didn’t want to know any of the probably gory details when they all met up for the after show party later.
Whereas Winthorpe had been a sober serious type from the outset, always praying and fumbling with his rosary (again supplied by Michael Davis Productions.) Ross, who was perhaps ten years younger, seemed quite good-humoured and polite. But of course as the time drew closer to the air date he was beginning to take on the air of a condemned man awaiting his call to the electric chair. And she couldn’t blame him.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?”
Rodrigues realised she had been daydreaming and wondered just how long she had been standing there. “Oh, sorry Father,” she said a little flustered. “I was just asking if you needed anything else?”
My head examining? Ross thought grimly but simply shook his head and thanked the woman for her enquiry.
“Just call reception if you need anything later,” she told him.
“Will do.”
Then she was gone Ross put the bible on the table in front of him and took in the view. The hotel was situated at the edge of a large luscious park. He didn’t have much experience with jet setting (well until lately that was) but it wasn’t hard to imagine this place was five stars all the way, situated as it was in the centre of Barcelona.
Feeling like he was once again caught up in a whirlwind, Ross had barely been back in England a week when the call had come to whisk him away to, at the time, God only knew where.
All he had been told was to only pack a small case as the production would provide him with everything he would need, including a crucifix, bible and even the clerical clothing he was to wear.
The whole thing had put Ross in mind of an actor being taken off to some exotic location. Which he supposed in a way he was, but a player in a movie for which the ending and his character’s fate had yet to be written.
When he had been collected from his home by the middle aged woman who had barely left his side since, Susan she had almost reluctantly told him her name was. Ross had actually been frisked by the monosyllabic driver and security guard who no doubt was standing guard outside the hotel room at this very moment just in case Ross got the urge to go out unaccompanied into the Spanish sunshine.
It had all happened so fast, Ross only had enough time to call Mendez and tell him he was off but couldn’t tell him his destination, and of course the old priest had tried once again, as he had upon Ross’ returned from Mexico, to talk him out of this madness.
“Shane, please you don’t have to do this,” Mendez had pleaded.
“I have to try,” Ross told him. When Ross had gone to Mexico, it had been hoped that Hauser would be able to provide him with something, anything to arm the priest against his upcoming meeting with the creature ‘Mister Minx’. In truth at the time Ross hadn’t believed such things were truly real.
But the conviction in that small Mexican village, particularly amongst the children and then of course the creature in the box Hauser had shown him. Had left Ross in no doubt of the reality that now faced him, in sunny Barcelona of all places.
“I have to try stop this thing, Father.” Ross said although he had no idea how, and he could almost hear Mendez shake his head in resignation on the other end of the phone. Then it had occurred to Ross that he hadn’t even seen the priest from the Vatican in the flesh. He had an image of a silver haired dark skinned Spaniard with skin like crumpled leather. But in truth Mendez might not even had been much older than he was, for all he knew.
“And Hauser didn’t give you anything? Any indication how to defend yourself against it?” Mendez asked more in hope than expectation judging by the tone of his voice.
Nothing, Ross reminded himself. Only the absolute conviction that he had to try. Something, anything, the image of that poor child’s grave seemed to be burnt into Ross’ retina. “Miguel Torres; May 2004 to September 2013” Ross whispered without realising it.
“Who?” Mendez asked.
“I have to try, for Miguel Torres,” he said firmer this time. He thought back to that desiccated thing in the box on that charred altar half a world away now. So far in miles but never far from his mind’s eye. He had to at least try for that poor nine year old boy and for what had once been his priest both corrupted and murdered in the most horrible of ways.
And of course for that small Mexican village scarred for generations to come. And for what was almost worse than all of that. Because as far as anyone knew, it was all for no reason at all. What had Hauser said? They cause pain for pain’s sake or something similar. Whomever they were. Perhaps an encounter with the creature might shed some much needed illumination on the meaning of all this pain and suffering.
And now Michael Davis comes along to profiting from his own would be assassin, that creature Mister Minx which was a kin to the monster that had killed Miguel Torres. The priest couldn’t believe it, but he mused that might actually be the worst of all of it all.
Yes Shane Ross knew he had to try, even if it was only to make even a little sense of it all. Of child killing creatures in the shape of priests and internet sensations skulking in the shadows, praying on those fallen priests foolish enough to face its corruption in the hope of some kind of redemption. Foolish priests just like Father Ross himself.