The cathedral’s tower stretched far into the sky, and in the darkness that had befallen Manchester it appeared as though its length was never ending. The top of the tower seemed to have disappeared into the looming dark clouds and the flitting moonlight added to its just about ominous form.

                They called it the Manchester Cathedral or the Cathedral Church of St. Mary. It had stood on this very spot on Victoria Street for 600 years, although “Victoria Street” was not its site’s name then.

                A thin, mixed group of men and women advanced down the vacant Victoria Street, laughing and shouting incoherent words at each other. They did not notice the dark figure at the foot of the steps in front of the cathedral. While the shadowy, mysterious man was aware of them as well, he ignored them just as they ignored him. They were not the reason he was here.

                His head tilted up and his dark eyes fell on the massive twin doors of the church. Steady and sure, he lifted his feet and climbed the stairs. Up he went until he reached the doors. There was no need to knock – the church was open to outsiders all through the day and night.

                Though inside was warm and cosy, the man did not remove his black coat. He brushed a veil of blonde hair obscuring his left eye so he could observe his surroundings clearly. Polished wooden pews were piled from back to front in seemingly infinite rows at either side of the broad path leading to the lone, tall pulpit at the opposite end of the enormous church. Orange beams spilled from powerful bulbs affixed to the cathedral’s ceiling, which overflowed with gorgeous paintings that depicted historical events from the Christian bible.

                A confessional was situated at a quiet corner, further inside the church, where there was little light. The man coughed lightly and shifted his weight to his other foot. He knew the priest was there. It was time to confess.

                His mind made up, he glided down the red-carpeted walkway towards the confessional, slid into the booth and sat.

                He waited.

                ‘What is it, my child?’ said the kind voice of the priest. ‘Are you here to confess?’

                ‘Father,’ the man said, ‘there is ... something I need to get off my chest. Something very important,’

                ‘Does this “something” burden you, son?’

                ‘Yes...’ The man breathed. ‘It does. Very much.’

                ‘There is nothing too great for the lord to handle. Please, tell me, son, what bothers you?’ The priest enquired softly.

                ‘It’s about a boy. A boy I know. Very young – about eleven years old.’ The man began. ‘We’re ... sort of close. He told me things, father.’

                ‘What things?’

                ‘Sometime ago, his parents took him to a church so he could possibly spend the rest of his life there.’ A rueful smile materialised on the man’s face. He leaned back in his chair. ‘He was happy there, father. Happier than you can possibly imagine. The church was his real home, you see. He told me that he literarily felt God’s presence when he was there.’

                Silence fell for a short while, and so the priest urged, ‘Go on, my child. You can tell me everything.’

                ‘I’m not so sure.’

                ‘You’re in the house of God. Only he can lift this burden you speak of from your shoulders and grant you eternal peace. You must be strong. You must be brave. Trust in him and he shall set you free.’

                ‘Okay.’ The man said, taking a deep breath. ‘The boy – my friend –loved the church he was placed at. It gave him peace. He was more than willing and ready to serve God, to walk in his footsteps. I don’t know how someone makes that kind of decision at that age but that’s what he told me.’ A brief pause and a shaky intake of breath followed. ‘Then something happened. Something bad.’

                ‘Something bad?’ A shade of curiosity, which would have been undetected if not for the silence that reigned in the church, laced the priest’s voice.

                ‘Something terrible. Lewd. It changed him forever.’

                ‘This bad thing – is that the burden you carry?’ The priest asked.

                ‘Yes, father. I think it is.’ The man replied earnestly.

                ‘You have to tell God what it is, child. It’s the only way you can rid yourself of your pain. You have to confess.’

                ‘I don’t know, father. You see, the boy told me that the man whose care he was placed in made him do unspeakable things. Things a child should never do.’

                There was a sudden, eerie stillness about the air. At first neither priest nor man spoke, but soon the priest broke the calm.

                ‘What happened?’

                ‘What are the awful things the boy was forced to do? That’s not important. What’s important – my burden, or so you may call it – is what happened next.’

                ‘And what is it that happened next?’

                ‘The boy decided to leave the church. But before that he wanted to confess. He wanted to tell his parents everything. He was ... afraid.’

                ‘But he told you. That has to count for something, right?’

                ‘Yes.’ The man muttered. ‘I suppose it does. But...’

                ‘But what?’

                ‘But before the boy could tell his parents, the man – his guardian – found out about his plans. So one day, the man pushed the boy down a flight of stairs. The boy’s body is forever broken, confined to a wheelchair until the day he dies. That is my burden, father. Or, at least, some part of it.’

                ‘I am so sorry to hear that, my child.’ The priest’s usual placid voice had a touch of sadness to it.

                ‘Yes, I know you are, father. After all, that man – that boy’s guardian – is a priest.’ The man said. ‘And that priest ... is you. And so I say: father, forgive you for you have sinned.’

                Nothing happened. Initially. Neither uttered a word. It was as if no one occupied the booth.

                Then the anonymous man heard the door to the priest’s confessional compartment burst open, accompanied by hurrying footsteps.

                Deciding quickly, he sprang forth, tearing through the flimsy, wooden door to his partition, and rammed his shoulder against the side of the fleeing priest, throwing him to the ground.

                ‘Why run now, father?’ The man mocked, grinning and watching the flustered priest falter his way to his feet.

                As soon as the priest was finally on both feet and facing the unfamiliar man, the wrinkles on his forehead intensified as his eyebrows pulled together. His eyes narrowed at the man, and then his brows jumped to allow his eyes expand. Recognition cloaked his face.

                ‘Vaughn Jacoby...’ The priest muttered, horrified.

                ‘Father Ramsey.’ Vaughn said, taking a step forward.

                Father Ramsey stepped away, determined to keep a safe distance from Vaughn.

                ‘You’ve aged well.’ Vaughn said, studying the priest. Since the last time they had met, Father Ramsey’s face had cultivated more crinkles. He looked thinner and had less hair on his head; hair that had transformed into a mess of white strands.

                ‘This isn’t right. It doesn’t make any sense.’ Father Ramsey scrutinised Vaughn the same way he would a ghost. Trepidation masked his surprise. ‘You... They said...’

                ‘They said I would never walk again.’ Vaughn smiled and folded his arms. ‘Confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life.’

                ‘I pushed you. You shouldn’t be here.’ Father Ramsey was having a lot of trouble believing what he saw. ‘I should have known it was you. The things you said in the confessional. That eleven-year-old was you. That was the same age –’

                ‘– you tried to kill me.’ Vaughn finished Ramsey’s sentence with a small laugh. ‘How are you, father? How’re you holding up?’

                ‘I’m fine.’ Father Ramsey snapped, putting on a brave face. ‘In fact’ – he moved a fraction towards Vaughn –‘I seem to remember your face now, though it is not the face of the eleven-year-old that used to play in the grounds of this cathedral.’

                ‘Is that so?’ Vaughn said, amused.

                ‘The newspapers. The man who murdered those policemen in London? That was you. I recognise the police sketches.’ Father Ramsey glared at Vaughn. ‘You’re a killer.’

                ‘And you’re a paedophile.’ Vaughn shrugged. ‘But that’s beside the point. I’m simply a realist.’

                ‘A realist?’

                ‘Yes, father, a realist. Didn’t you once tell me so long ago that we are all born into sin? Isn’t that why it is so much easier for us to commit acts of evil than perform acts of good? Being evil is part of human nature. It comes naturally. We are apt at it. But being good takes so much effort and time, and that is because it is not what we are meant to be. These days everybody wants to be different; they want to be Christians and Muslims and philanthropists – they’re trying to break away from who they truly are. Me, I have embraced my human nature. So, yes, I am realist. The rest of you are a bunch of hypocrites.’

                ‘You’re mad!’ Father Ramsey exclaimed.

                ‘Anyway,’ Vaughn ignored Ramsey’s affront, ‘I came here to confess for you ... amongst other things.’

                Father Ramsey struggled with silent words, his mouth opening and closing, unable to respond with the right retort.

                ‘I am a changed man!’ He spoke after a few elapsed seconds.

                ‘Changed?’ Vaughn chuckled.

                ‘This is God’s house. He forgives every sin.’

                ‘And he punishes all sins too. Yet, somehow, you’ve been able to elude retribution with help from the Catholic Church. Some God, huh,’ Vaughn glanced around.

                ‘Mock him all you want; it doesn’t change the fact that you are a wanted man and I am not.’ Father Ramsey snarled. ‘I suggest you get a head start before I call the police. Leave, now.’

                ‘I haven’t finished what I came here to do.’ Vaughn said.

                Father Ramsey’s face gradually contorted with renewed terror.

                ‘And a word of advice: unless you’re actually with a policeman or with some backup, do not ever use the P-word in the presence of a wanted criminal or something terrible might just happen.’ Vaughn said, enjoying the helpless look on Ramsey’s face.

                ‘W – what else did you come here to do?’ Father Ramsey asked.

                ‘I came here to thank you.’

                ‘What?’ Father Ramsey said, perplexed. ‘Thank me?’

                ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Vaughn said. He had never looked or sounded more solemn and sincere before.

                ‘Thank me for what?’

                ‘For pushing me down those stairs 15 years ago. If you hadn’t done that, I would never be the man I am today.’

                ‘You’re a monster...’ Father Ramsey stuttered, sliding away from Vaughn like he was a deadly plague. ‘That’s the man you’ve become!’

                ‘What would you call yourself then? How many boys have you subjected to the hell you did me?’

                ‘That’s ... that’s different...’

                ‘No, father, it isn’t. If I hadn’t been paralysed, I would never have found my calling. I would never have understood the true meaning of life and death and how it affects us.’ Vaughn elucidated. ‘Everything is so much clearer now.’

                ‘How is it that you can walk?’ Ramsey said, glancing about for an escape route. ‘You’re not supposed to be able to walk!’

                ‘How else? It is nothing short of a miracle from God.’ Vaughn beamed and spread out his arms. ‘You’re a man of God, aren’t you? You of all people should know a miracle when you see one.’

                ‘God doesn’t save people like you!’ Father Ramsey spat. ‘Those innocent men, women and children...’

                ‘There is a reason for everything, father, even the deaths of those people. Please, please, I implore you not to run.’ Vaughn said, impatient for the first time that night.

                ‘Shouldn’t I?’ Father Ramsey retreated still. ‘I’m much safer away from you!’

                ‘Where would you run to, Ramsey? Where would you hide? The Catholic Church can’t protect you from me. No one can. Why don’t you just let me finish what I started?’

                ‘I WON’T LET YOU KILL ME!’ Father Ramsey yelled.

                ‘Of course,’ Vaughn remained where he was. He did not chase after Father Ramsey.

                Father Ramsey noticed this and stopped moving. By now, a great distance spanned between them.

                ‘Why aren’t you following me? What are you planning?’ Father Ramsey’s shrill voice echoed. His wide eyes darted around, searching for any potential danger.

                ‘We’re the only ones here, Father. There’s no one else.’ Vaughn said, cheerful. ‘Like I said, I came here for a reason. I came to confess for you. You said that only God could lift the burden off my shoulders and grant me eternal peace, did you not? Well, I am here to help lift that burden from your shoulders.’

                ‘What are you rambling about?’

                ‘I see the burden you carry, Father.’ Vaughn said, his eyes growing sad. ‘I see the pain inside you, eating your heart. You desperately want to redeem yourself. You want to go to heaven. I can help you.’

                ‘How?’ Father Ramsey said.

                Vaughn held out his right fist and stared at it. He uncurled his fingers ... and something very strange happened. Father Ramsey had to rub his eyes to ensure that they weren’t playing tricks on him.

                They really weren’t.

                Vaughn’s right hand was on fire. Blue and orange flames, like dancing liquid in midair, shimmered and sparkled on his hand. The fire burned without natural fuel, yet burned bright. What made it all the more bizarre was that Vaughn’s hand suffered no injury. His face, glistening from the light cast by his fiery hand, showed immense joy and wonder.

                If Father Ramsey had been terrified and horrified before then there were no words to describe what he felt now. Fear crippled him. His knees gave way and he fell on them.

                ‘Dear God...’ He murmured. ‘What ... what is this? What are you? How –’

                ‘How did this happen?’ Vaughn said, doing to his left hand what he had done to his right. Both hands flared like touches. ‘I don’t know. All I know is that when I could do this I was able to walk. I guess God has far greater plans for me than I thought, Father.’

                Father Ramsey clasped his hands together, interlacing his fingers, and rocked back and forth. His eyes were shut and his mouth moved in rapidly.

                ‘I will do God’s work. I will save his little children. I will burn this church to the ground ... and you along with it.’

                On hearing those words, Father Ramsey’s eyes flew open. His cheeks were stained wet with tears and his lips trembled.

                ‘Show mercy... Please...’

                Vaughn’s answering smile was succinct; the instant it came, it vanished into thin air. And the moment it faded away, a black rage building from the depths of his soul rose to cloud his expression. His eyes darkened. His face knotted into a deadly grimace. His lips twisted into a snarl and a growl rumbled at the back of his throat.

                ‘NOOOOOO!’ Father Ramsey let out a defeated cry.

                Vaughn’s thunderous roar shook the foundations of the cathedral. He shot his right palm forward and fire gushed out like never-ending water from a fountain. The flames spread, singeing some of the pews and searing the air. Finally, they bore down on Father Ramsey. His body was engulfed in the raging fire, which lifted him off his knees into the air and slammed him against the church’s main doors.

                The force of impact tore the doors open. His smouldering body was flung into the cold night and down the church’s front steps. It didn’t matter that he broke his neck, ribs and other bones as he tumbled on; he was dead before his body left the church.

 

***

               

“600-YEAR-OLD MANCHESTER CATHEDRAL BURNS TO THE GROUND. CHARRED BODY OF PRIEST DISCOVERED IN FRONT OF THE DAMAGED CHURCH. POLICE HAVE NO SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY” – The Daily Mail (27 April 2008)

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Scared.

excerpt from Villains   by Rac7hel