course, have joined you earlier had it not been for the particular nature of my metabolism but I am sure you will forgive me for this, shall we say, weakness.”
Whatever the meaning of this was, it washed over Steve. All he could focus on was the appearance of the creature sitting opposite him. It was, he knew, the priest he had seen lurking in the shadows of the chapel earlier but up close and at night he was a far more alarming proposition. He was clothed from chin to ankles in a long black cassock with a scarf of some similarly dark material covering his throat and a black broad-brimmed hat pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Steve had drunk plenty of champagne and wine and was feeling quite chilled but one glance at the priest’s face killed any impulse he might have had to laugh at the exaggerated costume.
The face, where not covered by a straggly deep black beard, was a pallid, almost chalk, white, scarred by some type of virulent red acne and the contrast of the sick red with the dead white was not easy to look upon. Father John studied him carefully through eyes strangely glassy and bloodshot, like those of someone who had stared too long at the sun. Steve felt the eyes scrutinising him and dropped his own gaze.
Later, he remembered little of the time he sat with the priest in the cool and perfumed night air; except he felt mesmerised as he listened. He knew they’d talked about the history and legends of the island, and how the forces that shaped the past were still at work. He thought the priest had shown him a beautiful prehistoric flint knife he’d found by the church. Large black carrion birds swept across the lawns and settled in the nearby trees, the leathery rustle and creaking of their wings disturbed him. The priest laughed.
“Ah, see our friends of the night; crows.”
Steve asked,
“But birds like that don’t live here, and anyway they are not meant to fly at night, are they?”
The priest laughed.
“Do you not recall the writings of your English man of lettersRobert Burton: in his fascinating study of melancholy he says, if I recall correctly,”
then he quoted from memory.
“God permits the Devil to appear in the form of crows and such like to scare those who live wickedly.”
He made a noise that might have been a chuckle.
“But do not worry, my friend, for here it is not you they will worry, and I hope that you and I in the weeks to come will enjoy many hours together.”
Steve couldn’t remember how he got back to his room, but that night he dreamt again the awful dream where crows swooped from the Skendleby trees to dismember the Reverend Ed Joyce.
He woke in bright sunlight, sprawled across his bed fully dressed, to the sound of knocking at his door. He opened it to find the shaven headed driver.
“Kirios, you have slept too long. Now it is late, I will drive you direct to where you work.”
Chapter 5:
Something Snaps
Theodrakis’s head ached as he walked through dazzling sunlight in Central Square towards the dilapidated university building standing in the shade of some straggly trees. These, like the building’s neoclassical facade, had been allowed to go to seed.
As usual he’d slept badly; wasn’t sure if he’d really slept at all, just lain awake in a delusional dreamlike state. But he figured he must have slept because at one point in the night he heard birds scratching their claws and beating their wings on the closed shutters. He hated birds and was repelled by the thought of their feathers or bodies touching him. He reassured himself it must have been a nightmare.
He crossed the short walkway leading from the square to the double doors, one of which stood half open. They’d seen better days and needed a coat of paint and new handles. The door scraped on the floor as he pushed it open: inside was a dark and deserted vestibule with a broken drink dispensing machine standing in the centre of a floor paved with black tiles decorated with white zigzags. The
Whatever the meaning of this was, it washed over Steve. All he could focus on was the appearance of the creature sitting opposite him. It was, he knew, the priest he had seen lurking in the shadows of the chapel earlier but up close and at night he was a far more alarming proposition. He was clothed from chin to ankles in a long black cassock with a scarf of some similarly dark material covering his throat and a black broad-brimmed hat pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Steve had drunk plenty of champagne and wine and was feeling quite chilled but one glance at the priest’s face killed any impulse he might have had to laugh at the exaggerated costume.
The face, where not covered by a straggly deep black beard, was a pallid, almost chalk, white, scarred by some type of virulent red acne and the contrast of the sick red with the dead white was not easy to look upon. Father John studied him carefully through eyes strangely glassy and bloodshot, like those of someone who had stared too long at the sun. Steve felt the eyes scrutinising him and dropped his own gaze.
Later, he remembered little of the time he sat with the priest in the cool and perfumed night air; except he felt mesmerised as he listened. He knew they’d talked about the history and legends of the island, and how the forces that shaped the past were still at work. He thought the priest had shown him a beautiful prehistoric flint knife he’d found by the church. Large black carrion birds swept across the lawns and settled in the nearby trees, the leathery rustle and creaking of their wings disturbed him. The priest laughed.
“Ah, see our friends of the night; crows.”
Steve asked,
“But birds like that don’t live here, and anyway they are not meant to fly at night, are they?”
The priest laughed.
“Do you not recall the writings of your English man of lettersRobert Burton: in his fascinating study of melancholy he says, if I recall correctly,”
then he quoted from memory.
“God permits the Devil to appear in the form of crows and such like to scare those who live wickedly.”
He made a noise that might have been a chuckle.
“But do not worry, my friend, for here it is not you they will worry, and I hope that you and I in the weeks to come will enjoy many hours together.”
Steve couldn’t remember how he got back to his room, but that night he dreamt again the awful dream where crows swooped from the Skendleby trees to dismember the Reverend Ed Joyce.
He woke in bright sunlight, sprawled across his bed fully dressed, to the sound of knocking at his door. He opened it to find the shaven headed driver.
“Kirios, you have slept too long. Now it is late, I will drive you direct to where you work.”
Chapter 5:
Something Snaps
Theodrakis’s head ached as he walked through dazzling sunlight in Central Square towards the dilapidated university building standing in the shade of some straggly trees. These, like the building’s neoclassical facade, had been allowed to go to seed.
As usual he’d slept badly; wasn’t sure if he’d really slept at all, just lain awake in a delusional dreamlike state. But he figured he must have slept because at one point in the night he heard birds scratching their claws and beating their wings on the closed shutters. He hated birds and was repelled by the thought of their feathers or bodies touching him. He reassured himself it must have been a nightmare.
He crossed the short walkway leading from the square to the double doors, one of which stood half open. They’d seen better days and needed a coat of paint and new handles. The door scraped on the floor as he pushed it open: inside was a dark and deserted vestibule with a broken drink dispensing machine standing in the centre of a floor paved with black tiles decorated with white zigzags. The
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