The Fetch, Late Chapter

Father Ronan’s farewell party at Peter’s was an overlooked affair, the attention of the village elsewhere that night. What little turnout there was were mostly pensioners, all eager to shake the priest’s hand one last time amid the smoke in that dim wooden pub. In one corner sat a pair of young men playing the guitar and bodhrán, the sound of their beat at war with the drizzle outside. 

Pierce Monaghan was the very figure of death in his wheelchair as his daughter pushed him towards Ronan. Barely sixty yet ravaged by his lifelong fondness for cigars. His gaunt frame was obvious beneath the cotton suit, his thinning hair white and combed over. Perhaps he had a month left in him, or perhaps just a day. Still his sunken eyes shone when Ronan bent forward to shake his weak hand. 

‘Thank you, Father, for all you’ve done.’ 

‘It was my pleasure, Pierce.’ 

‘God be with you, helping this village keep on the right track.’ 

‘I just act as the Lord wishes.’ 

‘Oh, yes. You were far better than that devil from before.’ 

‘I’m... flattered, Pierce. God be with you too.’ 

Ronan gave an awkward nod to Pierce’s daughter, and she nodded in return before wheeling her father away. The priest made sure to send the old man off with a polite smile when another old lady came to shake his hand. In time the farewells dried up and the patrons soon talked amongst themselves over glasses of stout, the party dissolving into just another Sunday night. 

Now free from their attention, Ronan retired to a highchair by the bar. His snifter of brandy sat before him, the amber liquid shining in the gloom. Ronan chose not to touch it, instead folding his hands together and staring down at the glass. He was content to do nothing but let the moment pass as slowly as possible. But then from the bustle of the pub behind him came the sober march of footsteps and a man’s voice. 

‘This is a quiet exit for a priest.’ 

Ronan answered without turning to face his visitor. 

‘This is a quiet village after all, Mr. Garrett. Have a seat.’ 

The reporter sat down to Ronan’s right. From his messenger bag Martin Garrett pulled out a pen and notepad, his other hand holding a glass. 

‘I’m heading from the village tomorrow myself, and I can’t count the pages I’ve written about it. It takes less than ten minutes to walk from end to end, but the story it holds is a mountain to climb.’ 

Ronan answered, still not taking his eyes off his brandy. 

‘Yes, this village has a history. Every year they fell a field of trees to make way for new houses, and the village grows. But despite that every year the congregation shrinks. Their heads turn grey with the seasons and, when one disappears from their pew, there is no one new to replace them.’ 

He circled above the rim of the glass with his index finger. 

‘I’d like to believe I came to this village to stem the tide, Mr. Garrett. But the truth is I drowned right from the start.’ 

Ronan turned to face the reporter. The man had gone pale since they’d last met.  

‘My apologies, please forget what you just heard. I tend to say unbecoming things in the presence of alcohol, Mr. Garrett.’ 

‘Consider it done, Father.’ 

Ronan spotted the glass of bubbling water in Martin’s hand. 

‘You’re not drinking yourself? 

‘Just sparkling water, I’m afraid. My editor would kill me if I wasn't sober on the job.’ 

‘Consider joining the priesthood then. We drink on the job every day.’ 

Both men laughed.  

‘Mr. Garrett, could I borrow your pen? 

‘By all means.’ 

With pen in hand, Ronan wrote on the underside of a paper coaster, then pushed it towards Martin. 

‘Are you familiar with this address?’ 

On the coaster he had written down the words, “Griffin’s Cross”. 

‘Why yes, I went down that road two days ago. Middle of nowhere.’ 

‘Good. It’s ten minutes' walk from here. Less if you run thanks to the rain. Head over there now and I can you meet there in twenty. Tell no one. It’s about Father Bennett.’ 

‘Why the secrecy?’ 

‘I’m afraid I don’t think it decent to speak of a fellow priest in these circumstances.’ 

Father Ronan nodded his head to a table nearby, where a middle-aged man chatted with the rest of his group with a pint in hand. Meanwhile his free hand was under the table, slowly climbing the stockinged leg of the woman sitting next to him. In return she just laughed and adjusted her loose skirt to make his ascent easier. Martin winced at the sight, drained his glass, and said, ‘Understood.’ 

The reporter then stood up and said his goodbyes to the handful of friends he’d made during his stay. Returning to his brandy, Father Ronan pocketed the coaster. On hearing the door chime with Garrett’s exit he pulled out his watch. Five minutes past eleven. For eight minutes he kept vigil by his drink, then he stood up and made his own goodbyes. He shook hands once again, offered hugs, and patted shoulders. On reaching the front door he turned to the crowd with a wave and a smile and said, ‘Thank you all for having me. May God look kindly on you as he does on me.’ 

One last cheer from the crowd. Then he was gone.  

* 

Upon stepping out into the rain, Ronan’s smile dropped and he looked both ways in the dark street before heading north. He felt around his coat pockets as he walked. No wallet in his left, only a handkerchief, a few coins, and a pound note. His right held the paper coaster from Peter’s and the steel canteen gifted to him by Mrs. Hyde. A warm glow came into view, so he stopped by the terraced house to take a look. There stood Mrs. Daly in her dressing gown by the open door to her home, smoking away as she watched the rain. The missing sleep was evident beneath her eyes. Tonight she didn’t bother with the usual pleasantries when he came to her front gate. 

‘Hello, Father.’ 

‘Hello, Mona.’ 

‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’ 

‘That’s right. By twelve o’clock. Any news?’ 

She took a puff and looked over his shoulder, staring long into the distance. 

‘No. My boy still isn’t back.’ 

‘I see.’ 

She leaned her head against the door frame, exhausted. 

‘I won’t keep you, Father.’ 

‘Very well, Mona. Good night.’ 

Ronan left Mona to her task and carried on. Hands back in his coat pockets, he headed up the main street towards his home, only to bypass the hill and tread further out of the village, past the tree line, and into the growing countryside. When he heard the rumbling of a car ahead he made for the stone hedge wall on his left and hopped over. Crouched and alone in the dark, while lying at the edge of a grassy field like a vagrant, Ronan watched the light pass above the row of jagged stone teeth. As he did in the pub Ronan was content to let the moment linger, waiting long after the rumble had passed and the air became still again, before his brain forced his body to stand up and scurry onward in the dark. 

* 

He found the reporter waiting under an oak tree by the crossroads, taking shelter from the rain. The shoulders of his tweed blazer were damp. Soaked hands clutching his messenger bag to spare it from the elements. The only comfort Ronan gave the weathered man was an obvious statement. 

‘You’re here.’ 

Martin didn’t try hiding his annoyance. 

‘That’s right. You have something to share?’ 

Ronan motioned him towards a nearby metal gate, leading to a concrete farmyard. The only buildings around for a mile, with nothing but green fields and trees for neighbours. 

‘Let’s find proper shelter first, away from the road. This way.’ 

He opened the gate and bid the reporter entry into the yard. Passing by the slurry pit and a shed full of empty stalls, Ronan led the man to the entrance of a red metal barn. Inside were a few rotting pallets for company and some old straw lying atop the hard floor. Martin spoke up after lighting a cigarette. 

‘We won’t be done for trespassing?’ 

‘No, thankfully. The farmer here hasn’t been busy since his wife passed a few months ago. Now he spends most of the week commuting to his childrens’ place in the city.’ 

‘Right.’ 

Martin took a drag to warm himself up. Ronan’s nose wrinkled at the smell, wishing it’d left it behind at the bar. The ammonia rising from the pit nearby wasn’t half as offensive as the cancer he witnessed every day in this village. Ronan began the speech he’d been rehearsing in his head on the way here. 

‘What I’m about to tell you, Martin, I do so in the utmost confidence that you'll act responsibly with the information given. Understood?’ 

‘Yes, Father.’ 

‘Good. You’ve been around the village these past couple days, asking about Father Bennett. I take it you’re not really a writer for the Kent County Journal?’ 

Martin didn’t flinch. 

‘You got me there, Father. I was hired to look into the dealings of the late Father Bennett.’ 

Ronan stepped closer to the man. 

‘I don’t expect you’ll tell me who your client is, Mr. Garrett, but I’ll hazard a guess it’s Bennett’s brother. He had no other immediate family.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ 

‘Since we’re on the same level for once, I think I can tell you what I know.’ 

Ronan feigned a concerned glance around the farmyard. 

‘Father Bennett may have been a man of God, but he was still a fallible man. He liked to drink more than was healthy, and I doubt I’m the first person to tell you that he may have fathered a child. He also had his fair share of enemies.’ 

Martin cocked an eyebrow. 

‘On his deathbed he told me about a sum of money he had inherited from his father. I don’t know how much because I never saw tail of it. All I know is that he buried what he hadn’t spent in a biscuit tin somewhere in the forest close by this farm.’ 

‘Did you try looking for the tin yourself?’ 

‘These past six years I’ve been on a fruitless search for the thing. Occasionally, I've taken a walk in the woods with a trowel in hand. Digging at spots here and there. Never finding anything except the odd coin.’ 

‘What would you have done with the money had you found it?’ 

‘I must admit I don’t rightly know. But I’m telling you now because I gave up the search a short while back. I’m leaving tomorrow empty-handed, so I don’t see the harm in confessing my part.’ 

Martin’s frown was visible in the moonlight. 

‘What you’re telling me is interesting, Father. and most of it lines up with what the other villagers have talked about. But if all that’s true, why on Earth would Bennett bury his own money? Why not just put it another account? And what’s this about enemies?’ 

Growing impatient with his own lie, Ronan asked. 

‘Are you a church-going man, Mr. Garrett?’ 

‘Well, I'm not a Catholic. Presbyterian actually. I haven’t gone since Christmas. But I do try make the effort for my wife’s sake. What’s your point?’ 

Martin Garrett was a younger man than Father Ronan, but he was neither a fit one given his build, nor an alert one given the hour. Ronan’s left hand shot through the air and clamped Martin’s mouth shut before he could register what was happening. The cigarette stub fell from his mouth. The priest’s fingers dug fast in the man’s face, his grip covering his nose and mouth but not eyes which bulged in shock. 

At that same moment Ronan raised high the canteen he held in his right hand, then let it fall on the back of Martin’s head. Skin broke with a dull thud. Metal struck bone. The man’s eyes turned bloodshot. He tried to gag, but what little sound that came was drowned out by the rain. Martin slumped to his knees and Ronan’s grip held firm as he bent down along side him. He struck again, and the man’s head jerked forward. His arms went slack and useless by his sides. Where it not for the dim light Ronan might have seen the tears stream from the man’s red eyes, had it mattered. Ronan struck a third time and Martin’s eyes rolled up as he fell flat on the ground. Blood streamed down his nostrils, trickling between Ronan’s fingers, and onto his shirt. 

Kneeling beside the wounded man with his left hand still gripped to Martin’s mouth, Ronan fished out with his right a handkerchief from his other pocket. He released his grasp for a second, giving the bloodied man a chance to suck in some air, only to stuff the cloth between his teeth. Ronan poked at it with his fingers to stop the man from spitting it out. Martin choked as he did but offered no resistance. The strap of his messenger bag slipped off his shoulder and fell to the ground. 

On feeling the blood and saliva between his fingers, Ronan wiped them clean on Martin’s tweed blazer. Then he stood up, circled round the wounded man, and dug his arms underneath the man’s bulk. Both hands sprouted beneath Martin’s armpits and took hold of his chest. 

Looking back while stooped down, Father Ronan gauged the distance between the barn and the slurry pit. Ten or eleven meters it looked like. A horrible toll on his back, yes, but he could still manage that feat. Ronan didn’t bother to look in either direction as he then dragged Martin’s weight backwards. The moment was decided as soon as he wrote down the address for the detective. Fate was right to punish him should he be seen in the act. 

Ronan heaved in the rain, each footstep back on the slick concrete a calculated one. The back of Martin’s head was misshapen, a mess of broken bone underneath his balding and bloodied scalp. Up close to the injury, Ronan smelled the tang of salt and copper in the air as he struggled backwards. On reaching the metal fence guarding the pit, mercifully only chest-height, Ronan summoned his remaining strength to lift. Teeth clenched, his feet apart, Ronan pulled up the man to his level and took one last glimpse of his face. Nose bloody, eyes swollen shut, mouth stuffed with reddened cloth. Perhaps he’s unconscious, thought Ronan, a mercy. He leaned Martin against the fence and, with one hand on the man’s collar and the other on his belt, he tipped his bulk into the dark pit where he fell headfirst without a sound. The cold stink of the void swallowed his body whole, and then he was gone. All Ronan cared to observe, as he stared long and hard at the slurry, was that the detective went down with both shoes still on his feet. 

Taking stock of himself, Ronan cricked his neck and brushed his shoulders. He looked down at his shirt to see it blacker than usual with the man’s blood. No matter, he just buttoned up his jacket. The dented canteen he wiped with his sleeve before returning to his pocket.  In the poor light he poked around the barn where he and the detective had a civil conversation only a minute earlier. No other trinkets or mementos lost among the straw. No drops of blood the rain wouldn’t wash away. Martin’s fag end he just tossed in the pit as well. Now at ease, Ronan took a breath, stepped out of the yard with the messenger bag underarm, opened and closed the metal gate once more, and vanished into the night. 

He avoided the road on the way back, instead charting a path home through the sodden fields and then forests in the rain. Too much of a risk to being seen in the main street so late and so soon after Mr. Garrett’s departure. The socks on his feet turned wet and sticky as he trod through the tall grass in his dress shoes, his salted hair soon flattened against his scalp, and a cold ache arose in his chest. Yet Ronan felt lighter than ever. Twice this weekend he’d struggled with a great obstacle appearing from the ether, and twice he’d followed through on removing those obstacles. He may as well fly if he wished. 

In the distance and off to his side a pair of flashlights flailed around among the trees. Muffled voices called out for the boy who would never answer. Their raincoats black and grey, but not green. Ronan slid by them unnoticed and headed up the hill, past the gate, to the back door of the parochial house. 

Once inside, Ronan shed his dripping wet coat and kicked off his mudded shoes. After checking the front door was locked, he opened the cellar and peered down into the darkness. Nothing stirred. Content, he headed to the living-room and flicked on the light.  

His fingers now dry, he kneeled to the floor and took to ripping and rolling up pages of a nearby newspaper. From an old biscuit-tin he pulled out a smelly white bar and broke off a block. With the kindling on hand he lit up the fireplace and put his hands to the glow. But it wasn’t enough. More fuel was needed. 

So he sat by the fireplace and pulled up the detective’s messenger bag. From it he pulled out page after page of hand-written notes. There were scribbles and opinions and even the odd doodle here and there. His eyes glazed over after the first couple of sentences so he fed the words to the flame.  

‘A mountain indeed.’ 

The leather notebook with the golden trim seemed particularly fancy, likely a birthday gift or Christmas present. The pages full of observations and insight both from this case and previous matters. Ronan burned that too. 

The priest coughed when he saw his own face in a polaroid. It was taken yesterday afternoon without his knowledge. A picture of him walking towards the shop, shortly after taking care of the obstacle in the cellar. Ronan had kept his calm all night, but now in the privacy of his home he finally seethed. 

‘That fucking sneak.’ 

He burned one picture after another, giving rise to a plume of acrid smoke in the fireplace. One of the photographs wasn’t a polaroid. Instead it was a laminated portrait of Martin, his face less lined and sporting a full head of hair. In his hands he proudly held up a newly baptised infant, looking confused in their swaddling clothes. Ronan tossed that one without blinking. Finally he threw the bag itself into the fire. The buckles would end up as warped pieces of copper by the morning, but the canvas would turn to harmless ash. As the fire crackled away Ronan felt the corners of mouth turn and realised he was smiling. Tonight had been thirsty work, and he took a sip from his dented canteen. 

Sure, there was plenty more junk to clear away before his departure, but the long weekend was now over. Standing up he felt around for his clerical collar and slipped it off. Then he twirled the stiff ring of linen with his fingers close to the flame and said to himself, ‘Just one day more, and you will burn with the rest.’