The moment he was inside the sacristy, his excitement rose. He had stood leaning with his back against the door, taking in all around him, as if he’d just entered a cave full of treasure. The room had smelled of candle grease and incense and was filled with heavy, dark furniture, which he had suspected had been there long before Fr Mahon. There had been old papers too, hardback books, mostly of a religious nature, and a tall mahogany unit in the corner with carvings on the front depicting a scene from the Garden of Eden. The unit had been locked, but the key was in the door. He’d turned it, forcing it a little, his nervous excitement rising as he’d felt the bolt release itself, and the door opened.
Inside, the vestments had hung like a line of coloured soldiers. He’d moved his hand along the top, stroking the embroidered garb, like he might have touched a painting in an art gallery that he had been forbidden to lay a finger on. At first, he’d worried that someone might come in and find him, or that the heavens would strike and punish him for committing such a sin. His palms had felt sweaty as he’d looked all around him, thinking the very walls could alert others to his misbehaviour and, just for a moment, he had been sure he’d be paralysed to the spot. It was then that he’d noticed the large crucifix hanging above the doorway. The sight of the crucifix should have scared him more, but it had encouraged him, as he’d realised that neither the walls nor the crucifix had any power over him. Alone, he’d been free to move at will, so when he’d found the biscuit tin with the altar bread inside, he had not hesitated to pick up the wafer bread, place it high above his head and, facing Jesus on the cross, say, ‘Hoc est enim Corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradetur’ –‘This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ At no point had he felt any guilt – even afterwards when his mind had rambled now and then and he’d worried about being punished. Those feelings had soon passed; the lack of retribution had strengthened his delight that he had got away with it. After that, he often broke into places – after all, it was perfectly natural to be inquisitive, even if he carried out his curiosity in a way others would not have done.
He still had a few minutes before the six o’clock news, which he planned to watch upstairs. He had heard the headlines during work at lunchtime; they had all been about the missing girl. He looked forward to listening to the news with no distractions, reading his notes, and his copy of Pensées. In his rush to get upstairs, he tripped on the second step. Falling forward, he dropped the book, his notes scattering on the staircase just as Tabs attempted to slip past. He turned, a blow from his left hand sending the cat flying backwards through the air. Tabs was lucky, having nine lives. Picking up the notes one sheet at a time, he placed them back in the book at exactly the same page, which now had a dirty crease down the centre. The mark would be permanent.
Straightening his back, he walked back down into the kitchen. The cat was nowhere to be found. Taking down a drinking glass, he wrapped a tea towel around it before hammering a meat mallet down hard, smashing it into tiny pieces. With protective gloves on, he opened a tin of cat food, mixing the smaller pieces of glass in with the food, then filled Tabs’ bowl to the brim. By the time he left the kitchen, everything had been tidied away and looked exactly as it had done before. Tabs would have an uncomfortable night. His mood shifted again. He smiled, knowing he would still make it upstairs in time for the news. He expected the main story to give more details on the missing girl, and he was keen to keep abreast of all developments – but the headlines were not as he expected.
Gardai are this evening examining remains found in the Dublin Mountains. It is feared they may be that of missing twelve-year-old schoolgirl, Caroline Devine. The identity of the body has not yet been confirmed, but it is understood that her family have been informed, and an autopsy is due to be carried out by state pathologist Donal Morrison later this evening.
He stood in front of the television screen, not quite believing what he was seeing, as a reporter from the scene reiterated the meagre information. Garda cars were parked up on a ditch at the side of the road, yellow tape running for as far as he could see. He saw men dressed in white boiler suits, their faces looking downwards, wooden sticks in each of their right hands, breath billowing from their uncovered faces.
He had left her near perfect. He had wanted everything to be as it should be, not just for him, but for her too. Whilst staring at the television screen, he felt the intrusion of those unknown men, messing things up, a sense of violation rushing through him.
He replayed the broadcast, looking at the police in their white boiler suits, mucky tyre marks on the road with the onslaught of their cars, the black of the tall spruce trees shadowing the foreground, turning everything in their path to miniature. He paced around the room, with a multitude of thoughts flooding him all at once. There was no time for regret; he had to think, and think clearly. The finding of the girl’s body brought new difficulties, loose ends that would have to be dealt with. They had forced his hand, and he now needed to be one step ahead of them. The distance would not prove a problem. He still had another couple of hours before dark.
Ellie