Sitting close to the Jesuit in the rear of the taxi, Sallie could not shake the feeling of rapture, even though, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she hated it. Why not have me here, in the back of the taxi? Take me now, as I am — whatever you wish! The wicked thoughts invaded her again and again.
At last, the cab arrived at the church, where Sallie paid the fare plus a reasonable tip for the driver. Ignatious ushered her to the vestry door and knocked.
Father McCahill was surprised to find the Jesuit on his doorstep, especially after seeing him arrested and his vehicle towed away by the police. “Hello, Brother,” he boomed, happily. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He laughed. “I thought you must have committed murder at the very least! Come in. And, who is the young lady?”
Ignatious smiled pleasantly. “Thank you, Father. This is Sallie; she is a friend of mine. She wanted to come along with me and see your interesting little room.”
“Ah,” said the priest. “I can understand anyone being interested in that.”
In the short telephone call of two days ago, when Ignatious made the appointment to visit, Father McCahill had mentioned a special room in the church, which he would like the Jesuit to see. It had only recently been discovered and dated back at least three centuries, probably more. He had said no more than that, but it had been enough to gain the interest of Ignatious.
Once inside, the three sat down to the usual tea and cakes as Ignatious began his tales of adventure in the Amazon after convincing the priest that the arrest had been a dreadful mistake. Father McCahill was fascinated by the stories and strangely drawn to the wonderful being that had entered his domain. He had wanted to ask about the lovely young woman but his brain would not move in that direction, the Holy Brother filling his head.
The Safari Park had become a scene of frenetic activity. Ambulances, T.V. crews, newspaper reporters and police were jostling around the entrance gates waiting for the all-clear from the Rangers within the enclosure, who were hunting down the wild beasts and sedating them with darts. Cameras were flashing constantly, even though there seemed little to photograph at that time.
As soon as the word came, the gates were opened and in drove two ambulances, hurrying to the scene of horror. Hardened to sickening sights through their experiences sorting out motorway victims, the paramedics went about their grisly work in a quietly efficient manner. Not a single body was intact. However, the occupants of the breakdown truck that had come to remove the wreckage were amazed to discover two injured, but alive members of the forensic team, huddled together in a recess of the vehicle, shuddering in shock in their unconsciousness.
On the perimeter, the two detectives had been assessed and treated on the spot before being whisked away to hospital in a low-slung vehicle. The elder one, Graham, seemed to be suffering only from concussion and a few scratches and bruises whilst the other was badly lacerated along the front of his body where the razor-wire had sliced deeply into him from the weight of his companion. Whilst Graham would be released from hospital within a couple of hours, after undergoing a thorough examination, Clive would remain there for another two weeks and would not return to duty for a further month.
The conversation in the vestry finally came around to the hidden room, a conversation from which, strangely, Sallie allowed herself to be excluded. She rose to follow the priest and the Jesuit as they made their way into a conservatory that backed onto a wall of the ancient church. In here, the priest, smiling knowingly, gripped a protruding stone and pulled. Amazingly, a section of the wall moved silently and smoothly inwards; the mechanism, untouched since its installation, working as easily as any modern day appliance. The door slid back into place once the last person stepped in.
The room beyond revealed an area of around twenty five feet square, lit by a narrow window of thickened glass, measuring about six feet by one. Along the walls were several oil lamps placed in the original torch holders and being the only concession to modernisation. There was no mistaking the intent of the room — it was clearly designed for torture.
Dotted around the walls were several sets of shackles around which dark stains and splatter marks could be seen. These would be the entrenched marks of blood carried down the centuries.
In one corner, stood a mediaeval brazier with the various iron implements still stored in it and, next to that, a small, thick wooden table was secured into the brickwork. It resembled a smaller version of a butcher’s table and on it lay several iron items, designed no doubt, to inflict agony on the unfortunates brought here.
The focus of attention was two other wooden tables that took up the centre of the room, standing side by side. They resembled, even more, butcher’s tables except that they were adorned with straps and shackles. The telltale stains were again in evidence.
For several minutes Ignatious stood silent as the ghosts of the place came to him, soaking into his body, invading his mind. He could plainly hear the screeching and pleading of the victims as they sought relief from the expertly delivered pain.
Breaking from his trance-like state, he turned his gaze upon Sallie. She looked at him in alarm for a brief moment and then her face relaxed and she smiled — a smile of undisguised lasciviousness. Yes, my God! Yes! I am yours. You desire me now! I want you — take me!
She began to peel off her blouse, the eyes, dark and clouded, looking into her Saviour’s. Next came the skirt, and then the shoes, kicked off in wild abandonment, and the stockings she chose in preference to the sexless tights, followed by the bra. She stood, attired only in her flimsy panties, her firm breast standing firm and proud, as the men gawped at her, even the Jesuit being gripped by the beauty.
The ghosts of the ancients shrieked into the room as Sallie, without spoken command, climbed onto one of the tables and lay on her back, arms and legs outstretched, the smile still playing on her lips.
Ignatious turned his attention to the transfixed priest, boring into his mind. “Yes, Father,” he said quietly. “I can read into your thoughts and into all the thoughts you have ever had.”
Father McCahill heard yet did not. He was staring at the near-naked woman on the table with his mind held by the invading forces.
“Secure her to the table, Father. Use the straps at the edge of the table to fasten her left arm.”
The priest moved forward and carried out the Jesuit’s bidding. The spirits screeched ever louder. Sallie was fully compliant, even making it easier for the fumbling man to do a proper job by moving her arms and legs into the various positions. At the end, she was firmly strapped with arms and legs apart but able to move her head.
“Now,” said Ignatious, his voice calm as usual. “Touch her Father. You want to, don’t you? She’s not too old for you is she, Father? I know you like them quite a bit younger.”
As Ignatious spoke, the priest began to run his hands over the imprisoned woman; tenderly at first and then more vigorously, kneading the firm flesh, squeezing at the exposed breasts. The thing he wanted most in the world at that time was to get onto the woman, get inside her. His lust was a raging inferno.
“No, Father,” the quiet voice again. “You cannot have intercourse with her. To touch is sufficient. Better than your dreams, Father; your fantasies as you lie in bed. This is the real thing. Enjoy it while you can.”
He watched as the inflamed priest extracted his lustful pleasure from Sallie, touching wherever he could, his desire reaching fever point. He turned to the Jesuit, with eyes pleading to be allowed to complete the act.
The stare that returned was cold and hard. “You are a disgraceful sinner, Father McCahill. Your memory has told me that this is your third parish and that you have been moved due to your activities with those whom you are sworn to protect. Age and marital status have meant nothing to you, have they? You have preyed on those unfortunate beings and satisfied your evil urges.”
Father McCahill turned away from the still smiling Sallie, and dropped to his knees in front of Brother Saviour. Holding his arms upwards, his hands clasped, he begged for forgiveness. Ignatious, however, was not in a forgiving mood and castigated him further until the wretch was in a blubbering heap face-down on the cold, stone floor.
“Get up now,” commanded Ignatious. “I want you to go into your garden and pick me some flowers.” Ridiculous though this sounded at a time like this, the priest raised himself to his feet and listened as Ignatious detailed the varieties he required. “Bring them to me together with a bowl of boiled water. Go now. Hurry!” he said.
Father McCahill rushed to the door, pulled at a small stone set in the wall near to the doorway and hurried through as soon as enough space was cleared. The door closed to on his exit.
Turning to the prostrate woman, Ignatious said: “Sallie. I want you to do something for me.”
The lascivious smile returned as she looked toward him. “Yes. Anything.” Now is the time. Now he will come to me!
“I want you to phone a mutual acquaintance. Will you do that?”
“Yes. Yes.” Hurry, my God. I need you.”
Reaching inside Sallie’s handbag, he found the mobile and turned it on.
“What is your ID, Sallie?” She offered it up immediately. “6742” Ignatious punched in the code and waited for a line.
“Tell me the home number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said then. Again, the number was offered without delay. On hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get Mrs. Sampler here, urgently,” he commanded in his quiet voice.
Bethany’s voice came through clearly so that Ignatious was able to hear but not quite make out the words said. “Hello. Beth Sampler speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Bethany,” opened Sallie, as though speaking to a life-long friend. At the other end of the line, Bethany froze, recognising whom this was. “Graham is on his way here and he wants you to meet up with him. Now. It’s very important.”
“Very good, Sallie,” murmured Ignatious.
Bethany forced herself to speak through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t he tell me that himself when he phoned a quarter of an hour ago?”
Unfazed, Sallie continued: “I’ve only just contacted him and he didn’t have time to get back to you. He asked me to give you a call.”
Asked her to contact me? thought Bethany, infuriated. “Where are you and why do you need me there?” she asked, icily.
“I am at the church of St. Cecelia’s in Pangbourne. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes I do. Now, why am I wanted?” asked Bethany sternly.
“Oh, I think you know that,” came the mocking reply. “We both know what we need to talk about.” A loud click told Ignatious that Bethany had slammed the phone down. He took the mobile from the smiling Sallie. “That was very good, Sallie. Very good indeed.”
Just then, the chastened Father McCahill returned with a steel bowl containing steaming water and carrying the required flowers in a pocket of his priestly gown. “Where shall I put these, Brother,” he asked, his eyes diverted to the floor in deep humility.
“Put them on that small table in the corner, there and then kneel and pray beside the young woman that you have just defiled.”
“Yes, Brother,” he said, almost in tears as he shuffled speedily to the table. “Please give me your forgiveness and allow me into Heaven. I am wretched. I am a sinner most foul. I beg your absolution.”
“Do as I say,” said Ignatious in return.
The priest hurried to carry out his orders, ending as instructed, on his knees by Sallie’s position.
Scooping up the petals from the table, Ignatious placed them into the bowl and, using one of the ancient implements, began to stir them in one direction and then the other until the water became a deep rose colour.
In order to allow the poison, for that was what he had brewed, to settle, he had to let it cool. Turning to the praying priest, he told him to bring the woman into the secret room when she arrived, which would be in about forty-five minutes. The intonation of the prayers hummed on, the whispering of the ghosts adding to the eeriness of the occasion.
Whilst the mixture was cooling, Ignatious addressed Sallie again:
“Tell me the mobile number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said. Again, the number was offered without delay. Ignatious punched in the given digits and, on hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get him here,” he commanded.
As the sound of Graham came to Sallie, she spoke: “Hello, Graham. I was just wondering how you were. I saw you climbing the fence but didn’t know if you had made it. Are you okay?”
Graham was astounded to hear Sallie’s voice; he really thought she had perished in the horror at the park. “Sallie?” he said, asking the unnecessary question. “Sallie? Is that you?”
“Yes. Yes, darling it is me. I was rescued by the Jesuit and he now has me held captive.”
“What?” thundered Graham. “Where? Where, Sallie. Where is he holding you?”
Sallie faked a tremulous voice. “He has me in St. Cecelia’s, Graham. Please, come quickly. I think he’s going to kill me!”
There was no time to think; no time to consider the situation. “I’m on my way now. Hold tight and don’t do anything to upset him.”
“Graham. Please, come alone. He’s insisted on that.”
“Right — anything. Just stay calm.”
“He says if you come, he will explain things to you and let me go. All he wants is his freedom.”
“Freedom? I’ll kill the bastard!” he hissed and then hung up.
Ignatious was delighted with the unprompted story. “Excellent, Sallie!” he said. “That was first class.” The mumbling of the penitent priest continued, unabated. The intensity of the wailing sprits increased. Ignatious wondered if the others were able to hear the unnerving sounds.
While awaiting the arrival of Bethany, Ignatious picked up a knife-like instrument, ancient but rust free, and began to clear one of the stems brought in by the priest, taken from a rose bush that bore the deepest burgundy flower the Jesuit had ever seen. He carefully stripped away the sharp thorns until just two remained, one near to the top of the stem and the other an equal distance from the bottom. He then cut the stem into two pieces of around six inches each. Satisfied with the result, he placed them both into the bowl of thickening poison, ensuring that the thorns were covered.
Having finished the task, he raised the priest from his kneeling position and sent him into the church ready to receive Bethany. “Bring her immediately to here,” he instructed. “I may allow you to further sully your cesspool of a mind by letting you secure the new one to the other table.”
Momentarily, the priest’s eyes lit up and then quickly clouded as though caught doing something he should not. He shuffled away and out through the secret exit into the vestry. Almost running into the empty church, he knelt at a front pew facing the altar, where he began again to pray.
Sixteen minutes later, a highly agitated and angry Bethany stamped into the church, her high-heels stabbing loudly onto the tile flooring. Spotting the now turning priest, she increased her step, bearing down menacingly upon him. For a moment, Father McCahill felt a spasm of fear, as he stood erect. This was a woman in deep anger and liable to do anything. He tried to speak but the words would not form.
“Where is the woman?” Bethany screamed at him. He cowered. “Er, er, she is in a room off the vestry,” he managed.
“And where the hell is that?” she asked sharply, not caring about the apparently abusive language, considering where they were.
“Follow me,” mumbled Father McCahill. “This way.” He moved swiftly from the church, into the vestry and to the wall covering the defunct torture-room, with Bethany no more than inches from his heel. Hell hath no fury like a woman! He thought, Full stop!
At the tug on the brick, the mechanism operated as smoothly and as quietly as ever, the entrance becoming instantly cleared.
The priest was bundled roughly aside as Bethany stormed in. Inside, she first took in the strapped-down figure of her rival and then the calm, smiling Jesuit beyond. She halted in her tracks at the unreal and bizarre sight before her. Instinctively, a hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. Then she looked at the Jesuit. His twinkling eyes looked into her, searching her secret thoughts, upturning the ones she tried to bury, the one’s that shamed and embarrassed her. She fought against it, rebelled; she hated this man! You want me don’t you? I’m yours now. I’m yours whenever you want me. Oh, my lovely God, take me — hard! She fell to her knees, unable to control her actions any longer.
“Get up, Bethany. Come, stand near to the table.” Ignatious’s quiet, controlling voice wafted across the room. She did as told, standing looking down at the near-naked figure of Sallie. She took off her jacket, followed by the white blouse and the rest, until, like Sallie, she wore only her skimpy briefs.
What a lucky man that Graham is! thought Ignatious. Two really beautiful creatures from which to take his pleasures.
He then addressed the priest: “Put her on the table alongside the other, Father.” Still the quiet, unruffled voice. The priest moved swiftly to do his Master’s bidding, smiling lecherously as he did so.
In no time, Bethany was secured in place, her right arm almost touching the left of Sallie. Both women were calm, influenced by the magical aura of the mysterious Jesuit.
Like a dog awaiting its master’s command to “fetch,” Father McCahill looked expectantly to Ignatious. A full minute passed as the men’s eyes locked. Finally Ignatious spoke: “Get away from her, you miserable sinner!” he hissed. “Get down onto your knees and pray to the good God above that he offers you salvation!” The crack of bone on stone floor echoed through the room as McCahill dropped to his knees as if pole-axed.
By then, Graham was ten minutes away from St. Cecelia’s, having torn down the motorway at illegal speeds, his mind concentrated on meeting the Jesuit and wreaking revenge.
Inside the secret room, Ignatious removed the thorn stems from the mixture and placed them on the bench. The poison had soaked well into the plants, covering the individual thorns and leaving a clear area of around four inches to the end. Going to the captured women, he looked at them, enjoying the double beauty. Both smiled, their thoughts for once in unison. Come on my beautiful Master. I am ready for anything you may give. Come to me. Come to me.
Speaking to the priest through the raised voices of the long-dead spirits, Ignatious commanded him to get up off his knees and let the policeman in. Without delay, Father McCahill rose to his feet and hurried into the church to kneel at a pew once more.
Five minutes later, the second member of the Sampler family entered, equally angry and stamping in, his leather-soled shoes smacking loudly on the flooring. Seeing the priest, who had risen to face him on his entry, he called: “Where is she? And him!”
In response, Father McCahill murmured: “Follow me, please,” and moved off in the direction of the vestry, shuffling his feet, head bowed. Graham hurried behind him, his anger only just under control and threatening to break at any time.
As the opening to the room was revealed, Graham stormed in, as had his wife before him, and then stopped dead in his tracks. The scene caused his mind to spin and he was forced to support himself briefly on the wall that had closed behind. In one quick glance, he had taken in the figure of the hated Jesuit at the head of two adjacent tables bearing two almost naked women secured there — his women! The wife whom he had so easily betrayed and the lover in whose arms he had found sexual satisfaction certainly no better than what he already had but new and different. Man’s basic instincts to the fore — and the Jesuit knew! In this place of God; of religion; of evil and of ghostly presence. He shuddered.
His brain was still unwilling to accept the fact of what could be plainly seen; the Jesuit had his lover here and also, incredibly, his wife! And they were in danger!
Then the Jesuit spoke: “Ah. Welcome, Detective Inspector,” the voice, as always, calm, everyday, unruffled. “As you see, two of the most precious beings in your life have been spending their time with me — and the lecherous priest here.” He pointed to Father McCahill, to whom he addressed the next sentence. “Come here, Father. Stand by my right hand.” The wretched man scurried over and stood, head down in shame, next to Ignatious.
At last, Graham’s mind gelled. He made to move forward but was stopped by the Jesuits words: “Stop! Do not approach me, Detective Inspector or these two lovely females will die before you have travelled three feet.” Graham halted, puzzled but recognising the very real threat in the Brother’s words.
“You will have noticed that I am holding two rose stems with rather wicked looking thorns very close to the skins of Bethany and Sallie.”
Graham had not noticed before but his eyes now rested on the innocuous-looking items. Ignatious continued: “Be warned that the stems are impregnated with a most deadly poison and one prick to the flesh will cause death within seconds. It is a poison I learned of on my travels to the Amazon and it is deadly effective.”
“You’re bluffing,” croaked Graham, his apprehension building.
“No. I do not bluff in such matters. See.” In a blur, Ignatious shot his right hand sideways and back again, scratching Father McCahill with the thorn. The effect was immediate as the doomed priest instantly foamed at the mouth, his eyes bulging. He began to jerk uncontrollably in spasm before falling to the ground, his arms and legs flailing, his body jerking wildly. A yellow vomit poured from the open mouth, shooting into the air and falling back onto the now purple face. A long, low, disturbing moan escaped from his lips and, seconds later, the troubled priest fell dead.
“Go to your Maker, Father, and may he have mercy upon you,” said Ignatious gravely. The demonstration was fully effective.
Before speaking again, he concentrated for a few seconds, releasing the victims from his mental grip. Both began immediately to babble, imploring Graham to save them. The words gushed out in such a terrified manner and at such a pitch that it was impossible for Graham to distinguish what was being said. The message, however, came across loud and clear.
“Now,” the calm voice spoke again, “Graham, you have a choice. Possibly the worst choice you will ever have to make, and whichever way you choose, you will suffer unending heartache. In this way, you will be paying back to the Lord for your misdeeds. A necessary scourging of the soul.”
“What the hell are you talking about, you demented pillock?” burst Graham.
The ghostly cries of anguish had settled to a whisper as Ignatious explained further. “How often have you wondered in your life, what you would do if given the awful choice of saving, say, your father at the expense of your mother, or vice-versa; or your wife or your child, for instance?” No reply.
“Well, I am giving you that choice now. I know what you have done. I know your preferences; I know your mind and your fantasies. I even know how you will choose.” He allowed the words to impact on all three before carrying on. “If you fail to make your choice within ninety seconds from when I say, I will touch both with these stems from the beautiful rose and you will be able to watch them die in front of you. However, I will allow room for some redemption by giving you the choice. One has to die and travel to the wonderful Creator, while the other lives on. Whichever way you go, how will you be able to carry on your relationship in the beautiful manner it was beforehand? How will you erase the thoughts in your chosen one’s head, that you have caused one to die?”
A shocked Graham looked into the Jesuit’s eyes. His head suddenly cleared as Ignatious penetrated the recesses of his mind, concentrating him on the task in hand and the truly awful decision he would be forced to make.
The thorns moved next to the skin of the victims as Ignatious said: “Now,” and began to count off the ninety seconds…. “One, two, three, four….”
Tears were now streaming from both women’s eyes, their mouths opening to speak; to plead, but nothing came out. The terror restricted their throats, paralysed their brains. Please. Please, Graham. Save me!
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.”
Me, Graham. Me! You have to save me! Both thought alike as the seconds moved inexorably on.
“Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine…”
Save me! Save me! Time moved forward.
“Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three…”
“Bethany!!” the single word cracked through the air, rebounding off the stone walls with their shackles, as the screeching of the spirits reached a crescendo.
A simple, instant movement was all it needed. The thorn pierced Sallie’s arm, sending her into the same, terrible spasms of the priest. Within seconds, Graham’s lover was dead and his heart was near to breaking point. He was unable to comprehend the horror of what he had witnessed and of his own major contribution to the horror.
As Graham fell to his knees, then to the ground, blubbering and screaming like a child, Ignatious calmly picked up Sallie’s car keys and silently left. The spirits retreated to whatever place they occupied in the Netherworld.
The evil room was filled by the heart-breaking sounds of Graham’s anguished cries as Bethany wept along with him, her thighs wet with the waters that had involuntarily escaped as the ninetieth-second was approaching. Their lives would eventually settle down; they would put this behind them. She loved Graham so much and he had proved his love for her in the most emphatic manner possible. Yes, things would be all right in the end, she convinced herself. How could he have sex with her? The final thought put doubts on her resolve. Life was going to be difficult from now on.
As Graham finally dragged himself to his feet and began to release Bethany, Ignatious was moving onto the motorway in Sallie’s Ford Mondeo, destined for a Jesuit farm situated at the beautiful and mysterious village of Avebury in Wiltshire, which dates back to around 2000 B.C. Here, Ignatious could recharge his aura, absorbing the atmosphere and the accumulation of spirituality amassed through the many centuries.
There was also another reason; at the farm he would be protected and given a new identity. He would rest for a month or two, ease into the new personality and then set out to continue with God’s work, as he saw it.
The relationship between Graham and Bethany had, immediately in the aftermath of the terrible experience, been very close, each feeling a need to smother the other with affection and love. However, now, two months on, little niggles had begun to creep in; silly, needless fault-finding and criticisms.
Whilst being pleased that Graham had saved her at the expense of Sallie, the fact that he had actually deceived her and compounded the deceit with lies, gnawed at her. How could she punish herself in this way, she had thought, time and again, doubting a man who had made the ultimate decision, made a terrific sacrifice for her and, beyond argument, had proved his love? She was also painfully aware that he was still grieving over his lover. For the marriage to survive, it would need a lot of soul-searching and possibly more than one frank and deep discussion. Bethany had to believe that, given time, their lives would return to normal. The Jesuit was still having an effect on their lives, even though he had not been seen since that fateful day.
The trail had gone cold — as cold as the bodies he had left in his wake and that fact troubled Graham deeply, adding to the pressures on him. Clive had just returned to duty but he was on a course of counselling in an endeavour to rid himself of the terrifying memories of the experience with the animals, and had been consigned to desk duties for the immediate future.
With a sigh, Graham put away the bulky file on Brother Ignatious Saviour, ready to turn his attention to other murder investigations that had been put his way. As the metal drawer slammed shut, the 10:15 am Eurostar railway shuttle from England to France was just setting off on its journey through the English Channel tunnel.
Aboard was a clean-cut passenger, exuding fitness coupled with a worldly knowledge etched into his dark-skinned face. His passport showed the name: Doctor Rhamada Gupta, registered as an Indian National, and an archaeologist by profession.
Ignatious would travel under this name until reaching another Jesuit farm, situated in Southern France, where he would again adopt a fresh identity and wash away the skin colouring to once again become European. His Godly work was soon to restart.