Funeral for a Victim

Father O’Malley was used to dealing with idiots. Not just in his congregation, but the wider world as well, in the church, at the supermarket, everywhere. He seemed to be constantly surrounded by idiots. It used to bother him. He would get angry, refuse to talk to them. Or the opposite, he would pity them and coddle them in their idiocy. Thinking he could help them. He must have been mad, idiotic even, to try. These fools were beyond help.

There were different types of fools, of course. They used to be classified in the good old days. In psychology, Idiot was the bottom of the IQ scale, followed by Imbecile and then Moron. Moron being the highest level of intelligence for someone who is mentally disabled.

Of course, Father O’Malley knew these people were not technically morons but they were certainly far beneath him. They all mindlessly take up his precious time with pointless pleasantries and platitudes. Why must they insist on rabbiting on about the most meaningless nonsense for no other reason than to make conversation? The very notion that silence must be filled was ridiculous. It must be enjoyed, savoured, sought after. Never just needlessly filled.

This crowd was a particularly ugly rag tag bunch. Clearly not used to being together and feeling obliged to converse and console. They moved around him in various shades of black although he could see them all being more comfortable in tracksuits and trainers. They gripped hands with rarely seen relatives and tapped shoulders of common acquaintances; all pretending to support one another, like the weak do.

He was too tired for this. Best to get it over with.

Father O’Malley strode down the central aisle as the mourners took their seats either side. Some shuffled for the front row. There was no need to rush, it wasn’t going to be a full house. Far from it. The miserable wretch was lucky anyone was here at all.

The coffin was basic. He had seen plenty like it. Plain black, cheap and shiny. Fake brass fittings and a tiny simple wreath on the top. It was an affront. How he missed the grand elaborate affairs this parish used to offer up. This place would be full to bursting. Weeping and wailing from the porch to the pulpit. Loud hymns would be belted out with the organ accompaniment. “Abide With Me” was always a favourite. It has power and reminded them of their mortality, kept them supplicate.

He arrived at the altar and said a few words, then nodded to Remo, who stood loyally by the CD player. Remo pressed play.

Robbie fucking Williams, Angels.

Should’ve guessed. These people love it. It is a right challenge to play this song to a group of British people and expect them not to sing along, either in their heads or, if drinking, from the depths of their lungs. They did their best not to sway with the music as O’Malley watched. He enjoyed it, like a birdwatcher in a hide, observing but not taking part. Looking at the poor, mindless creatures as they went about their business. The second chorus was coming up. Most of them had their heads down but a few here and there were looking up, spurred on, getting in the mood. He knew they would not be able to resist singing it in their tiny minds. The guitar solo. Fingers twitched among middle-aged men that should know better. Black clad air guitarists who, for want of a couple of pints of cheap lager, would happily have those ties around their foreheads by now. The final chorus was approaching. O’Malley had heard this song so many times. He knew every word, every beat, whether he wanted to or not. And he sorely wanted not to. They were building to a crescendo in their half-witted hive mind. The solo was just about to finish.

“Aaannd through it all…”

Father O’Malley nodded at Remo who obediently and immediately stopped and ejected the disc. Oh, how he loved the looks on their faces. How he revelled in the suppressed disappointment. You cannot wreck a funeral for the sake of an unfinished pop song, but by Christ these idiots felt that it had been destroyed right now. This was what got him through these things.

“We are gathered here today.” He began, checking his note cards as he went, looking through them to find out the names of his loved ones, his hobbies, all that rubbish. He could have planned ahead, but the cretin in the box had never set foot inside this church in his worthless life. Why the hell should O’Malley put any effort into this?

“As we know, his life was full of ups and downs. He lived through challenges some of us are lucky enough never to face.” He was a homeless, drug addict thief. His challenge was being a decent human being. He failed it.

“Of course, will be remembered through the life and love of his family, his mother…” check card “Angela, and his two brothers…” check card “Derek and Gaz.” Father O’Malley visibly sneered at this last name. They had given the names themselves, they could have said Gary, or Gareth but no, Gaz it was. He turned the sneer into a smile and directed it towards the family. They had the decency to look solemn at least. This was probably their first time in a house of God since their mother’s wedding. Bastards.

Their dead brother had visited the church more recently. He was found dead on the steps. Strangled. Naked. It was hard for O’Malley to shake the thought. Someone left him there on purpose. So purposefully. But why, was it a warning? Who knew something? He wiped the greasy sweat from his forehead.

The doors opened at the far end of the church and he tried to convince himself that it was the sudden blast of air that made him shudder. The detective walked in, wearing a plain black trouser suit and white blouse. She sat at the back, looking straight up the aisle. It was her that questioned O’Malley the morning they found the filthy wretch. She had been back again a few days later, keen to speak to Remo, after all it was he that found the body. Remo could not handle questioning though, certainly not alone. O’Malley had managed to intervene and keep her at bay. But this was a murder investigation, the second at the church in the past few years. It wasn’t going to go away. He looked over to Remo, still standing dutifully by. Remo had noticed her too. He wasn’t a complete fool. A tilt of the head and Remo left his post. Leaving by the side door at the back of the altar. O’Malley’s eyes burned into the detectives as Remo left, watching to see if she would notice. She was too busy though, scanning around at the mourners. Probably looking for suspects. Any of them were probably capable. Although, with what motive? Who would benefit from murdering a homeless, penniless waste of space like him? And why leave him on the steps like that? The question would not leave him alone. Sleeping was hard this past week. The nightmares were coming back. Had to focus on work. Let’s get this farce over with.

He gathered his hands together. The day’s sheep did the same. A few more words then get one of this lot up here to say something nice about the stiff and then get rid of the cop.

O’Malley stood to the side as one of the brothers got up to have a cry and say his piece. He slowly scanned around with the appropriate gestures and occasional sombre nods. He knew how to behave and automatically performed what was expected of him. If only he wasn’t so tired maybe he would have kept his gaze from the detective. Glancing once or twice was ok, but fatigue had gotten the better of him. Their eyes met. She offered a little nod. He returned it with an acceptably mute smile, but when he looked again, less than ten seconds later she was still watching him. He felt caught. Exposed.

Remo appeared back at his side as the weeping idiots carried on their reminiscing. As Remo leaned in to whisper in his ear O’Malley once again was unable to keep his eyes from the detective. She sat poker faced staring straight at them as Remo handed a mobile phone to O’Malley. He pocketed it immediately and then stepped forward towards the small lectern where the brother was just finishing his eulogy.

“Thank you Derek.”

“I’m Gaz.” Derek looked confused.

“Of course, of course.” Father O’Malley gently guided him towards his seat.

Remo moved over to the CD player again and put the next disc in. The coffin would be carried back out the doors of the church and then a short drive to the cemetery. He wouldn’t be buried in the churchyard of course. Couldn’t afford it for one thing, but also his type didn’t belong here. The fact he died here made it feel slightly macabre as well. O’Malley did not want him anywhere near the place.

Oasis. Live Forever. God, these people.

Father O’Malley followed the coffin up the aisle and out the door. The cars were waiting outside and the family took a short while arranging who was going with who, who would follow. He was going with the family, an unusually nice gesture. He took his place in the back of the dated limousine. Others were still milling around or making their way to their own cars. Christ, with this lot it was lucky there wasn’t a party bus parked out front.

He always made a point to stare down anyone that started talking in these cars. No good could come of it, there was nothing to say. Besides, today he needed peace to think. He looked out the window as they made ready to drive away slowly behind the hearse. Remo was standing on the steps of the church, he would lock up once everyone had left. The detective was standing at the bottom of the steps. She looked at O’Malley again. Another nod. Then turned and walked up the steps towards Remo. Remo looked at O’Malley now, with panic in his eyes. The cars started to move away.

O’Malley realised what was happening. The bitch wanted to question Remo without him there. This bloody funeral was becoming a major headache. Sweat was forming on his brow again despite the chill in the air. The phone in his trouser pocket started to vibrate. It would be him. It was too early though. He had explained this already. The man never took no for an answer. As the cars started to circle out of the small gravel stoned churchyard car park he looked again at Remo and the detective. They were moving inside the church. His church! The buzzing of the vibrating phone was getting louder, deafening. He would be expecting an answer. Demanding it. O’Malley started counting in his head. One, two, three. He had to think, had to focus.

“So Father what do you…” Derek began.

“Christ!” O’Malley all but screamed it.

“Are you alright, Father?” Gaz looked at him sideways.

“I just remembered, I’m sorry. I need my book, my hymn book. I’ll just pop back in for it. Stop the car! Only be a moment.”

He opened the door before the car had stopped moving, was out and half running up the path back to the church. The line of cars behind all stopped now as well, the passengers all agog at the sight of the priest running back to the church. He remembered himself and managed to slow down to a fast walk. Up the steps and inside.

The detective had her back to O’Malley. He could so easily walk up to her now and snap her puny little neck. Remo was standing next to the font, facing the door and looking stressed.

She followed Remo’s gaze and spun around to see the panting priest standing in front of her. A big smile glued on his face.

“Remo, we almost forgot you.”

“Father O’Malley. Don’t you have a funeral to officiate?” Said the detective.

“Haha, I certainly do. But how can I without my faithful assistant by my side?”

“I was just asking Mr. Remo a few questions.”

“He really cannot right now. I am sure he will be happy to answer them later.” He replied through gritted smiling teeth.

“Well, if you’re sure you can’t spare him.” She smiled in return.

The threesome stood still, looking at each other. The vaulted arches took all silences and amplified them. They did the same with any sounds. The buzzing of the phone bounced around the high stone walls.

“Shouldn’t you get that?”

“I’m sure it can wait.”

The phone went quiet.

“Come Remo. Let’s not keep these poor people waiting any longer.”

They made their way outside and back to the lead car. O’Malley opened the door and gestured hurriedly to Remo to get in, then squeezed into the seat beside Remo. The detective watched them drive away.

The black leather seats squeaked as Remo shifted uncomfortably. There was not enough room in here for them all.

“Did you get your book, Father?”

“Yes,” O’Malley said. Despite the complete absence of any book at all.

The rest of the short drive was in complete silence. O’Malley kept eyeing Remo. Remo knew there would be more questions of him.

After arriving at the cemetery, they walked side by side to the grave. The weak wept beside them.

“What did she ask you?”

“About the dead man.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I told her I don’t know nothing.”

“What else did she ask?”

“She said lots have went missing, homeless people. She asked if they still came to the church at night.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her we don’t see them anymore. We close the doors at night nowadays. They aren’t allowed in.”

“Good. Well done.”

They trudged along the damp grass. The mourners clustered together. Close relatives staying close, distant relatives keeping their distance. The service was brief and to the point. A cold wind was coming from the East and nobody wanted to be out in it any longer than they needed. Father O’Malley and Remo were invited to the wake, but politely declined. There were much more important matters to attend. They got a lift back to the church.

At last, they were alone and he could check the phone. There were fourteen missed calls and a message, two words. Rosa’s escaped.

“Destroy this.” Father O’Malley handed the phone to Remo as they walked up the steps and through the main doors of the church. Neither of them saw the detective standing quietly amidst the gravestones and oak trees.

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Ben’s Time

A long walk at night was Ben’s solace, a little peace from his world. That infernal house and the constant noise. It made him angry sometimes but he knew anger was bad. His left hand flitted around and around the rosary beads in his pocket. Mumbling hail Marys under his breath.

Walking soothed it. Praying soothed it. He often thought of drilling a tiny hole in the top of his skull to let out the built-up pressure, like steam from a kettle. He needed it. He would spend hours walking some nights. In his old cracked leather jacket and bright orange trainers, ill-fitting jeans that sagged under his stomach. Ben’s right hand circled through his long spindly hair that in turn circled his shiny bald head. He knew they laughed at him. Kids and adults. All of them. Night time was better. His Time.

As he walked down the cobble stone lane enclosed by the high wall of the churchyard on one side and the old stone wall of some fancy house on the other, he felt a safety, a security. He was getting closer to her. The streetlamps hummed softly. The gentle orange glow the closest he got to sunlight.

His peace was broken by a muffled shout. This was the worst thing about his Time. There were others. People who also liked the night. On the weekend so many and so loud that he couldn’t venture out at all. Drink done for them all. He was forced to just watch from his high window. But in the week, the others were different. They had their own missions. Their own reasons to walk. He never looked directly at them. Eye contact led to nothing good. Another shout. Closer this time. Be resolute. He turned the corner at the end of the lane and walked towards the front gate of the churchyard.

The church used to be open in the night. It used to be open all the time. You could go right inside and pray, anytime. It was where he received his first communion and made his first confession to Father O’Malley. In recent years, the other night people started to come there. Sleep there. Then they started locking the church doors. But you could still get into the graveyard, where his own mum was laid to rest. Once he found a man sleeping on his own mum’s grave. He had cried and asked him to move but the man was drunk sleeping. Wouldn’t move. No matter how much he pushed and pulled at him. the next few nights after that there were loads of people there. Police. He couldn’t get in. Couldn’t go near the gate even. Too many people. Tonight was quiet though. He would be able to see her.

Approaching the large black wrought iron gates always felt good to Ben, like a homecoming, the intricate curves and spikes looked nice. When he was a boy he could get his entire head through them, he would play around them as his mum spoke to the Father O’Malley. He entered the churchyard just as a man came running out. The man barged right into him and looked. Looked right at him. Ben looked back. In his eyes. He didn’t mean it. It happened too quick. That happened sometimes. In the supermarket or on a bus. Sometimes if you weren’t careful you could see someone’s eyes and they seen yours. It was scary. He froze, completely still. His arms by his side, looking at his feet. The man didn’t stop he just ran off straight down the road. Ben didn’t know if he looked back or not. He didn’t move for about a minute. Just wanting to be alone.

Mum would help him. she always helped him when he was scared. He remembered when he was little, he was being bullied by a boy in the street. They stole his bike. He was only five. The boy had a knife. What could he do. His sister ran and got his own mum and she had come and scared the boy off and held him so tight for so long that all the badness went away and he didn’t even think of it again that often.

He walked through the quiet graveyard towards her grave. She had a lovely spot. In the middle near the church but also next to a lovely big oak tree. She loved it there but she missed Ben.

He crunched along the grey gravel path and could see her stone now. She would be happy to see him. she would make him feel better too. He’d give her a kiss and it would be ok and he wouldn’t be scared anymore.

A man stood up. He had been hiding behind her tombstone. The man pulled up his pants and trousers. Ben looked at the grass. There was fucking shit everywhere! All over his own mums grave and her stone! The man looked Ben in the eye.

“Alright pal.” He rasped.

Ben screamed a guttural roar. His hands went around the man’s neck. How dare he, how dare he.

Ben held tight as the man lay down. Onto the grass. Onto the shit. He wept as he squeezed. He had never been this angry before. He knew he shouldn’t be, but couldn’t stop squeezing.  His eyes moved to his mother’s name on the stone and he let go.

“I’m sorry mum!” still weeping.

They were both covered in shit. It was all over Bens jacket and his jeans. He couldn’t touch his rosary beads. They would get dirty. Everything was dirty. Had to get it clean.

He stood up and dragged the lifeless man to the path and up the steps to the large dark studded doors of the church. The man didn’t have a cross or beads or anything around his neck. Another soul too late to save. You have to try though.

He began stripping the man. He stunk. Not just of shit. He needed a bath. Shouldn’t judge though. There are many less fortunate than us. That’s what mum used to say. He took off the mans’ socks and shoes. And put them neatly on the step.  He took off his trousers and dirty hoody. And folded them and placed them there too. Then, once he was naked. Used his t shirt and underpants to wipe him clean. Cleanliness was next to godliness. Once he was satisfied he made sure the man’s feet were together and positioned his arms out at ninety degree. Had to be certain God could see him.

He took the man’s clothes and went back to his own mum’s grave and used them to mop the stone clean. He wiped and wiped until it was as clean as could be. The little green plastic vase of pretty flowers had been knocked over and cracked when he was strangling the life out of the man. Ben straightened it up and took the new flowers out of his pocket. A tiny posy of daisies he had picked himself this morning. Then he knelt next to her and gave the stone a kiss.

“I’m sorry mum.”

It began raining.

Nun-ra 2 – God Speed

Sister Mary Joseph pulled the club out of Father O Malley’s neck. Blood was everywhere. His body slumped on top of his old acquaintance, they often “worked” together, now there were dead together. Still she felt nothing, no joy no relief, nothing.

She stood still, surveying the gentle carnage. The red stained the brilliant white of the alter cloths and the cold grey of the granite steps as it poured endlessly down. There were 10 pints of blood in a human and it covered an incredible surface area. These two were barely human though, undeserving of the word, monsters was more suitable, and they deserved death.

Pulling a cigarette from her sleeve she lit it up and drew a long slow pull of the sweet smoke. Her eyes moving as she did, her mind calculating her next move. It had to be fast. She didn’t have long. She exhaled through her nose and dropped the cigarette casually to the floor, half-finished after one puff, she crushed it out under her black hobnailed boot.

Her club was still dripping with globs of blood. She dipped it into the pool that was growing at the bottom of the altar steps. Swung it around and started writing on the large white pillar that was by the side of the aisle. Drips and drops of blood went everywhere; it was a blood spatter experts dream, she thought, or nightmare, depends how close to the edge they are. Maybe that was what the difference was, between the bad people that do bad things and the bad people that just think about it. The ones that do the bad things, they are concerned about how they see the world. The ones that just think about it, they are more concerned about how the world sees them. That fear of being judged or caught or punished is what keeps them in line, stops them doing the things that lurk in the darkness of their minds.

Some people, she thought, as she looked again at the piles of flesh that were once men, some people couldn’t hold it down though, couldn’t suppress that darkness. These were the people that made nightmares for the rest of us. She suppressed the urge to spit on the vile bodies of the pair as she dipped the end of her club again into the puddle of blood. It was already starting to congeal around the edges and was stickier now. She dragged the club across the pillar again. She felt like a Japanese calligraphy artist, using all the strength in her wrist to steady the club as she wrote with a flourish.

In the still and quiet of the lifeless church she always felt her peace. When she was alone in the house of God she could truly believe. It was a rare feeling and a welcome one. She knew a higher power was controlling her. Her actions and her thoughts were her own but she was doing God’s work.

She finished writing and stood leaning on her club for a moment while she surveyed her work. It should have been satisfying, like a labourer after a hard day looking back and feeling proud of what was achieved while simultaneously glad it was over. Instead she felt nothing. She removed another cigarette from the recesses of her sleeve and lit it up. Calmly cleaning her club with a perfect white handkerchief that she found somewhere about her person. She seemed to have an endless supply of them. Quietly polishing the nails and barbs that protruded from her club she again looked over what she had done today. Still no joy or guilt, no feelings at all, feelings had been taken away from her a long time ago.

Suddenly sirens.

In the distance, but certainly heading this way, Sister Mary Joseph didn’t doubt that at all, she had called them. She finished polishing the club, took a final drag of the cigarette and pinged it behind the altar towards the anteroom, where the cans of petrol she had brought and poured around for the very purpose quickly caught. The majority of the old stone building would be unharmed. But the small wooden anteroom would definitely go up. She glanced at it again. Watching the handle as it shook violently. He would start screaming any second.

“Sister Mary! Please! Have Mercy!” The voice shouted.

“Only God can give you mercy now.” She said quietly, maybe to herself.

The screaming started. The flames climbed higher and harder. The door shook as boots on the other side kicked. There was no point. That was the first thing she had checked. The door would hold.

The sirens grew louder.

She dropped the white handkerchief into the coagulated puddle by her feet as she swung the club over her shoulder and strode out the side door.

One word was painted red on the pillar.

Sinners.

The End.