THREE
Father Shane Ross watched the lurid end titles of demon time scroll across the screen of his lap top in quite disbelief. Now that he had actually seen it for himself, he wished more than anything that none of it was real, just like the rumours said, all actors and special effects. The priest was just some actor in a costume, his wounds, both mental and physical, an illusion. It would have been so much easier to stomach.
But Ross was in possession of proof that made the priest on the show all too real. On the table next to his computer was a Vatican dossier on Father Dominic Winthorpe, the man he had just seen mentally and physically tortured live on the internet. He reached over and picked up the black and white A4 photo of Winthorpe taken in better times (could there be any worse?).
The priest, who at thirty six was ten years older than Ross himself, was smiling for the camera. The picture had been snapped on the day of Winthorpe’s ordination. Some five years ago, the man’s face was a study in bliss, much as Ross’ must surely have been when he was ordained, a little over a year ago now.
Over the last year or so the dossier noted, Winthorpe had developed something of a drinking problem, following the death of his mother to cancer. The poor man had seen his once vibrant beloved mother destroyed by the disease, reduced from a very healthy twelve stone down to nothing but skin and bone at the end.
It had not only broken his heart, but shattered his faith. Although he had never actually denounced God and the priesthood, he had subconsciously done all he could to sabotage his position, he lost his dioceses. Drinking heavily until finally a fight with a parishioner had seen him dismissed.
Quite simply demon time had been Winthorpe’s chance at redemption. It was heart breaking to read, let alone then see the poor man humiliated like that, just when he had found his faith again.
Ross found it hard to believe that the thing that skulked malevolently around that ram shackled shanty of a house might actually be real. But real or not the possibility of the existence of such a potential abomination had reached the attention of the Vatican itself.
And it broke his heart that a fellow priest could have fallen so far from the side of God, until he felt that all he had left was the travesty he had just seen. Then there was the creature. Only ever fleetingly caught by the multiple cameras they must have had dotted around that house. It was as if the cameras, who were only too keen to capture Winthorpe’s agonies in glorious close up, suddenly became reticent at the sight of the creature. Fearful perhaps, or was it simply to preserve its true nature and to add fuel to the fire that raged around the things authenticity? Real or fake, it was all part of the appeal of the show apparently.
“Fake,” Ross told himself firmly. “Fake.” It felt good to say it out loud as if somehow making it true. After all the alternative didn’t bear thinking too hard about.
Ross suddenly heard his answerphone click on, he must have been so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard the phone ring at all. He jumped up and rushed over to the machine and picked up the receiver just before the beep came.
“Hello?” He said hoarsely the word more a croak than two syllables. He cleared his dry throat and tried again. “Hello?”
“Shane? It’s Father Mendez, that you?” Came the voice on the other end with a thick Spanish accent.
“Yes, sorry Father, yes it’s me. Didn’t hear the phone,” he said hurriedly. He knew Mendez was calling from the Vatican and he knew the priest would know why he had been so distracted.
“So, you saw the show then I take it?”
Show? Such a strange word for what he had just seen. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I saw it.”
“Bastards,” Despite his position, Mendez had never been one for decorum. “We are trying to trace the location, we’ve narrowed it down to France, but France is a big fu...” He stopped mid curse, perhaps he did have a little decorum after all Ross mused. “Place.” Mendez finished modestly.
“You can’t believe it’s real,” Ross said.
“I hate to say it, Shane, but I do think it’s possible for things like that creature to exist. To be honest I’m in a minority of two or three around here.” Mendez said. “But if this one is real, then we need to find it, Shane. We need to get it back here to the Vatican or better still destroy it and end that accursed show.”
“Okay,” Ross felt a sudden stab of dread. Something was coming.
A week ago, when he had first been asked to review Winthorpe’s case and then watch tonight’s show, he had thought it was in a purely professional capacity. Ross had a degree in psychology and was about to take his PHD, all paid for by the church. So it was only natural to assume the Vatican wanted to combine the two. Their interest in demon time, and how it was recruiting its, for want of a better word, contestants, and Ross’ master’s thesis. Now though...
“Father, do you want my opinion on what’s driving priests to enter the show?”
“No, not exactly,” Mendez replied.
“Or the type of personality that would want to participate in such a show? So, maybe you could find out who might volunteer next?” Ross’ throat was dry again he tried to swallow but only succeeded in making himself cough.
“We know who’s going to volunteer next, Shane.” Mendez told him.
Ross could taste bile at the back of his throat now, his skin felt cold and clammy his hand holding the phone was sweating so much he feared it may slip from his grasp.
“We have a mole, right here in the Vatican,” Mendez said and Ross caught a hint of reticence in his voice which just made him feel worse. “A novice, who was selling names of potentials to the show’s producer. Even persuading the priest he had targeted to go on the show, to fight the demon! Despicable really, preying on the more vulnerable priests.”
“That’s terrible, sir.” Ross’ voice was barely a whisper now and he frantically searched his small flat for a waste paper basket, plant pot, anything close at hand he could throw up in if he lost his battle with the growing nausea threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes went to the bathroom door and silently he calculated how many steps it would take him to get to the toilet without ruining the carpet if he failed to get there in time. He didn’t like the odds of making it.
“It is terrible,” Mendez went on, his voice sounded to Ross like he was speaking from under water. “Anyway, we caught him...” Mendez stopped and Ross could tell he was trying to find the right words to articulate what he wanted to say next. “We have come up with an idea of how we can use him, to get someone we want onto the show.”
Now Ross knew why he had been asked to clear his schedule for the next few weeks. He had thought he was going to be asked to join some kind of taskforce or committee which was looking into the show and the effects on those priests involved. He had even imagined taking a trip to the Vatican as part of the assignment, but in the context of an expert not out in the field. Especially not this kind of field.
What was worse still, what he imagined Mendez had in mind actually made perfect sense. Shane Ross’ past was perfect for the show, he fitted the profile down to the last detail. When Ross was in his mid to late teens he had been a chronic drug addict, in and out of rehab and juvenile detention centres since he was fifteen. Then onto the real thing once he was old enough. He had been convicted of theft and GBH when he was seventeen. Eighteen months in Armley Prison, Leeds.
Ross inadvertently traced the old track marks on his right arm with his free left hand. Prison had been his saviour in the end. That was where he had found God, and kicked the drugs. He had thought the Catholic church had been his saviour, the light in those dark times. Dark times he had thought he had out run forever. But now they were right there on his heels once more, ready to push him head long into God only knew what.
Was he about to replace that old monkey he had so successfully kicked off his back with something far, far worse?
“Father, if I may say a word?” Ross asked softly.
“Of course Shane, anything.”
“Shit.”
“That’s as good a word as any son.” Mendez said with no little sympathy. “Grab your passport, Shane. You’ve quite a journey ahead of you.”