Chapter 3

It was three in the morning before Detective Inspector Jane McCann crawled into her bed. Exhausted though she was, she could not sleep, for now there were two dead bodies haunting her: one a brown-haired phone-sex-purveying jilted Catholic wife on a church altar in Surrey, another a bleached-blond Sheffield prostitute lying on her filthy cot surrounded by soiled condoms and used syringes; both of them with their legs wide open, a Catholic priest’s semen seeping from their cunts.

Jane had dropped Phil back at his flat on the way home, apologising for the umpteenth time for ruining his evening with Bob. Realising that her sexual desire remained unsated after the interruption of the previous evening, she had brought herself off at home swiftly and unceremoniously with her fingers – no call for the rabbit tonight: that demanded time and attention, and she was not in the right mood for that.

Actually, she was not even in the mood for fingers either this morning. But orgasm helped her work off her mental frustration – and there was plenty of that. What the fuck is going on? she kept asking herself. And how? And why? And where is the priest? And how come he is still at large, despite the fact that every fucking police force in the country is looking for him?

Jane dozed fitfully, but was awoken shortly after eight o’clock by the phone. Blearily she answered, “Yes... ?”

“Detective Inspector?” The voice was female, with a foreign accent – perhaps Spanish or Latin American of some description – and sounded slightly nervous, though vaguely familiar. If Jane had been more awake, she would have recognised who it was. “Inspector, this is Sister Mariana – from the Church of the Immaculate Conception. I need to speak to you. But somewhere where we won’t be seen.”

“Do you have information about Father Wright’s whereabouts?” asked the Inspector urgently.

“Not exactly – but I know what’s going on – and I can help,” replied the nun.

“What do you mean, you ‘know what’s going on’?”

“Has there been someone else?”

“Someone else?”

“Another victim – another body?”

“How the hell do you know that?” asked the Inspector.

“I know this curse; I know how it works. And I know Father Jim’s history.”

“This ‘curse’ again – what on earth?” Jane rolled her eyes in disbelief. “OK, OK, let’s meet. How about at the police station, in an hour or so?”

“No, I might be seen. There are people who mustn’t know. Meet me on the corner opposite the Town Hall. I’ll be in civvies. Pick me up in your car; we can drive into the countryside. Then I can speak freely.”

An hour later, Jane was driving a small olive-skinned woman through the forests of East Berkshire in her unmarked police car. Without her habit – particularly without the wimple – Sister Mariana appeared less severe than she had the previous day. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, but clearly had a bit of natural curl to it, gracefully framing a soft face with penetrating green eyes. Though dressed in nothing more than a calf-length blue skirt, high-buttoned white blouse and light blue cardigan, Jane couldn’t help noticing her broad hips, and the outline of a pair of full breasts.

Despite the air of naïveté and vulnerability that her appearance gave her, Sister Mariana was clearly determined not to seem a pushover. “You don’t believe in curses, do you?” she asked, in what Jane thought sounded like a slightly accusatory tone of voice.

“Of course not, Sister. I’m a detective. I look for evidence, for causality. In this case, I haven’t found any yet.”

“Nor will you, if that is your attitude,” replied the nun, in a tone of voice which she presumably thought meaningful, but which Jane found infuriatingly self-righteous.

“How do you mean?” retorted Jane.

“Father Jim is a weak-willed man. He has been so ever since I met him, when he first came to the parish. You found his pornography, I notice. And presumably you know about the phone calls?”

“With the deceased? Yes. How did you –?”

“In the Catholic Church we look out for each other. Bishop Kieran knows what it’s like to be weak-willed. He asked me to keep an eye out. And Vicky told me about the curse.”

“This ‘curse’ again!” Jane cried out in frustration. “Such things don’t exist, Sister Mariana. I don’t hold with all this mumbo-jumbo, it’s –”

“You don’t have to ‘hold with’ it, Detective Inspector, any more than a flea has to ‘hold with’ the elephant whose backside he finds himself sitting on. It’s just the reality. Bernadette called the curse down on herself. Jim, poor fool, tried to lift it – but he had no idea what he was doing, so it just transferred itself to him. And there it will linger, killing one girl after another, until you find him and stop him.”

“So where’s he gone, dammit? If you’re ‘looking out for him’ all the time, you must know where he’s hiding. Is the Bishop hiding him somewhere?”

“No, he’s not clever enough for that. Neither of them is. This is the Catholic Church we’re talking about: only the women know what’s really –”

Jane’s mobile phone rang, and she pulled over into a layby to answer it. “Hello? ... Oh, Denise, for God’s sake tell me you’ve got some good news ... WHAT?! WHERE? ... Oh God ... Okay, I’ll go and pick up Phil, and we can go together.”

Jane threw her phone into the glove compartment and slammed it shut, swearing, “SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!” before remembering that she was in the presence of a nun, and apologising.

“Another dead girl?” asked Sister Mariana blandly, making the sign of the cross.

“Yes, found in Father Wright’s car this time. Same MO, same DNA in the semen.”

“Where?”

“Eden Valley. Cumbria. Seemingly a hiker: there was a backpack.”

“Ah!” replied the nun knowingly.

“What? Do you know where he’s headed?”

“Possibly. There’s a place he often speaks about.”

“What sort of place?”

“Well, a sort of chapel, I suppose: I know where it is.”

“Take me there, Sister. We’ll go and pick up Detective Sergeant Nyman first.”

“And Vicky.”

“Vicky? Victoria Berry? Why?”

“I will need her, to lift the curse.”

“What? You can lift this ‘curse’?”

“Well, not as such. But I know the only way this devastation can be ended.”

Jane shook her head in disbelief. “Nutters. Fucking nutters, the whole lot of you.”

“Complained the flea,” replied Sister Mariana.

Father Jim Wright was running. “Oh God,” he trembled, “help me. What have I done now?” Three miles behind him, in a layby off the A6, sat his abandoned car. And in the back seat lay a girl called – he thought – Melissa, her lower half naked, his semen slowly leaking from her pussy.

She was beautiful, thought Jim. Her wide face, framed by a burst of golden curls, had shone with glory and light. Her breasts had pressed bounteously against Jim’s chest. Her cunt had been tight and pink and neatly-shaven, squeezing his cock with happy delight as she giggled on the back seat of his car in the morning sunlight.

He had thought that this one would be different. Surely someone this beautiful, this lovely, such a tribute to God’s creation (so different from the one last night!) – surely the curse will not touch her, he had surmised. But now he thought: What a damned fool am I...

There was only one thing for it now, only one place he knew he could go, where perhaps there might be some hope, where maybe all this could be brought to an end. It surely was no coincidence that his journey had already taken him this far. He knew the place lay over the next range of hills, westwards towards the Lakes. And so Father Jim Wright kept running. And running. And he would not stop till he found his place of salvation.

Now there were four people in Detective Inspector McCann’s car, speeding northwest up the motorway. Phil Nyman rode shotgun, his eyes red and bleary, fitfully dozing: Jane McCann smiled inwardly, wondering if he had in fact spent the remainder of last night cavorting with Bob – but, out of respect for the nun in the back seat, she did not ask. Jane kept herself awake with several cups of strong coffee bought from successive service stations, all of them periodically announcing their titles like ancient ceremonial milestones: Cherwell Valley, Sandbach, Lymm, Charnock Richard – but none of them (certainly not the coffee) living up to the atmospheric promise of the name.

In the backseat, Vicky and Mariana chatted quietly. Jane was at first worried about how the nun and the adulterous slut would get on: but they seemed to know each other well, and slipped comfortably into parish small-talk. And when Sister Mariana announced that it was time for her to say her morning Office, followed by her Rosary, Vicky gladly joined in with her. Weird, these Catholics, thought Jane. They pray together, go to church together – and then fuck around behind each other’s backs without batting an eye... She would have liked to share her ruminations with Phil, but thought that would be a bit indelicate in present company; besides, Phil looked completely exhausted, or hungover. Or maybe fucked-out?

Once Mariana and Vicky had settled into Lauds, the wall-to-wall monotony of their orisons allowed Jane to feel it was safe to ask Phil, sotto voce, how his night had been.

Phil hesitated, before muttering in a deadpan voice, “Bob’s left me,” as he looked straight ahead at the tarmac pounding beneath them.

“What?” whispered Jane in shock.

“Said last night was the last straw. He’s been complaining for some time how my work is getting in the way of us. Last night was kind of our anniversary – well, depending on how you count it: first kiss, I guess. It’s never meant a lot to me – call me callous if you like – but well, anyway, last night he’d bought me flowers, and chocolate, and booked a surprise meal at our favourite restaurant – and then I just didn’t turn up ... I mean, it wasn’t just that, of course – we’ve been struggling for a while and ... well, when I eventually got home this morning, he’d left me a ‘Dear John’.”

“Oh shit,” whispered Jane, trying not to disturb the domestic liturgy which continued to drone on in the back seat. She paused a while, before venturing to ask, “How are you feeling?”

There was no answer. Jane glanced quickly sideways, only to see Phil staring doggedly forwards at the road, his jaw locked in a vain attempt to prevent it trembling, tears leaking unstaunched down his smooth cheeks. “Oh God, Phil, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

In the back seat, Vicky and Mariana were praying:

Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and redeemed his people, and hath raised up a mighty salvation for us in the house of his servant David; that we should be saved from our enemies and from the hands of all that hate us...

That Vicky and Mariana were so fully occupied in the back seat gave Phil some courage to say more to Jane, as he gradually regained his composure. “Hey, it’s not as if he was a saint or anything,” he complained. “I mean, he cheated on me, you know. I never betrayed him.”

“Er ... unless you count eating my pussy on a couple of occasions,” quipped Jane.

“Yeah, OK, but I don’t count that as cheating. That’s just me being friendly, isn’t it? Saving your batteries on the old rabbit,” giggled Phil, his demeanour relaxing.

“Positively philanthropic,” laughed Jane. “You want me to return the favour?”

“Er ... what do you mean?” Phil looked slightly alarmed.

“Well, above and beyond the call of duty, of course,” Jane grinned as she reached out her left arm and gave Phil’s crotch a squeeze. “But that’s what friends are for...”

“Jane!” whispered Phil. “There’s a nun in the back.”

And indeed there was, and she was now reciting:

... to perform the oath which he swore to our forefather Abraham that he would give us: that we being delivered out of the hands of our enemies might serve him without fear in holiness and righteousness before him all the days of our life...

“Shh!” replied the Detective Inspector, keeping her eyes on the road and her right hand on the steering wheel, as she deftly unzipped her Sergeant’s fly and removed his flaccid penis.

“But Jane, you’re driving!” remonstrated Phil.

“I’ve done this before,” replied Jane off-handedly, as she began to gently massage Phil’s cock into an erection. “Dave hates driving long-distance. But he loves sitting in the front passenger seat whilst I drive. See why?” She flicked the right indicator, pulling out into the middle lane to overtake a large reticulated lorry.

“Jane, I’m gay...” pleaded Phil, somewhat half-heartedly.

“Yeah, and you ate my cunt last night, gay boy,” grinned Jane. “If you’re so gay, tell me to stop, go on, I dare you!” she challenged, as she felt his cock stiffen further to her touch. But Phil just moaned and rolled his eyes upwards in pleasure.

Sister Mariana’s Benedictus was still in full swing, providing an unobtrusive soundtrack to Phil’s burgeoning ecstasy:

... to give knowledge of salvation unto his people for the remission of their sins, through the tender mercy of our God; to give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death...

Smirking, Jane reached forward, flicked on the police siren and flashing blue lights on her unmarked car, pulled into the fast lane, and accelerated to ninety. “See, Phil,” she said, her voice masked from the rear passengers by the siren now wailing furiously, “I like stroking dick. And I bet you like having your dick stroked, don’t you, Sergeant?” Phil nodded, groaning incoherently.

Jane went on: “I bet you like it when Bob strokes your dick, don’t you, Phil? Is that what you’re missing? Well, close your eyes and pretend it’s Bob wrapping his palm around your cock now.” She spat surreptitiously into her hand. “Here he is now, Phil, starting off nice and slow, peeling back that foreskin, feeling your pre-cum begin to leak from your cockhead – ooh, that’s good, Phil, yeah, like that!” Jane grinned, even as she kept her eyes on the road, watching the other cars scurry out of her way as her siren continued to wail.

Phil’s cock was beginning to twitch with pleasure, as Jane picked up the pace of her stroking. “I bet Bob doesn’t stop there, though, Phil, does he? I bet he likes it when you slide this stiff cock into his arse, doesn’t he? Go on, Detective Sergeant, make like you’re fucking that tight manhole now, grab his hips, pound that fucking shithole hard with that stiff cock of yours. Are you going to squirt all your hot cum now, Phil? Go on, spurt it deep inside his arsehole, fill up your dirty faithless fucking ex-lover with all your hot cum, go on, go on – oh yessss!”

Phil roared with pleasure, the sound of his voice barely masked by the wailing of the siren, as his cock jerked and exploded, his cum spurting like a geyser, some flying across Jane’s dashboard onto the windscreen, some landing back into his crotch and over his boss’s left hand. “Fuuuuckkkk...” he moaned, as quietly as he could under the circumstances, as happy sweat poured off his forehead and he revelled in the feeling of blessed release.

Jane lifted her hand to Phil’s face so he could lick off the residual semen which dangled from her fingers. Her eyes still on the road, she grinned, as Phil laughed with mingled relief and embarrassment. Then she turned off the siren, slowed down, signalled carefully, and returned to the inside lane.

Mariana and Vicky seemed by now to be mid-Magnificat:

... He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts; he hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things...

“Better, my friend?” asked Jane.

Phil just laughed.

And in her rear-view mirror Jane spied Sister Mariana chuckling and rolling her eyes knowingly.

At last! thought Father Jim, as he crested a ridge and saw his destination waiting for him in the distance. And how beautiful it was, how much – if this were normal circumstances – he would have loved to sit there a while and drink in the view: a broad stone circle, about thirty or forty yards wide, built on a flat hilltop at the confluence of three ridges, surrounded by heather-clad mountains. There was a sudden drop beyond it, between two of the ridges; but Jim knew he could make his way safely along his current watershed to reach his destination.

This is where it must be done, thought Father Jim. Here must all tears be wiped away. There must be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain; for the former things must pass away. Here must all be made new.

The sun shone bright and warm today, even as dark grey clouds scudded across the sky, giving the impression of a constantly shifting landscape, a kaleidoscope created by the Almighty to show off the glory of His creation. As if to emphasise this fact, Jim could just descry a large rough-hewn stone cross erected at the near end of the broad, low, flat stone altar at the centre of the stone circle. Briefly, he knelt in homage, whispering:

O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, your will be done.

Then Father Jim got up and continued on the last leg of his journey. He was not running anymore, for he knew that the hour was at hand.

It was not until lunch – Marks and Spencer’s sandwiches eaten on a grubby grass bank at the edge of the car park at one of many indistinguishable motorway services – that Jane was able to speak to Mariana privately again. Phil had gone to the toilet, and Vicky had moved some thirty yards downwind to have a cigarette. “So, where are you taking me, Mariana?” asked Jane with, admittedly, a touch of aggression in her voice.

“The Secgan Ring,” she replied, smiling enigmatically.

“Is that where Father James is hiding?”

“I don’t think he’ll be hiding, as such. But he’ll be there. I think he’s expecting us.”