The Death List by Paul Johnston Page A

a source of comfort to the faithful in times of loss and pain, a beacon of joy at weddings. His choir, his football and cricket teams, they’d won prizes. He swallowed again, but now the spirit tasted bitter as his grievances rose up around him like a demented chorus. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were only offering them friendship. The boys loved you. The boys wanted you to touch them.
    Father Prendegast heard a noise from the church. Mrs. O’Grady must have forgotten something. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. She knew, he was sure of it. The hypocrites, the old harpies. They all knew about him, but they pretended they didn’t. They pretended he was a normal priest rather than one who’d been given a last chance by the archbishop, and that only because the church couldn’t face the shame. Five years in an isolated retreat in County Kerry and then this run-down hole. It was only full when the sinners came at Christmas and Easter. No one bothered to confess anything other than venial sins these days, anyway. They thought that meant they could forget the truly bad things they’d done. Hypocrites. Whited sepulchers. At least he’d confessed, though it had been required of him. Confessed and asked forgiveness. His conscience was clean, even if his desires still tormented him.
    Norman Prendegast drank again. The bottle was still at his lips when the sacristy door opened, and then closed again.
    “Who’s that?” he demanded, his vision blurred. “Is it you, Mrs. O’Grady?”
    The key turned in the lock.
    “What’s going on?” the priest said, his voice wavering. He tried to get the bottle out of sight. “This is a private room.”
    “Calm down, Father,” said a low male voice. “I’ve just come for a little chat.” The figure drew closer. “About old times.”
    There was something familiar about the voice, although the words were free of any recognizable accent.
    “Who are you?” Father Prendegast asked, staring through the whisky-induced haze. “Do I know you?”
    “Oh, yes,” the man said. He was standing next to him now. “Don’t you remember me?”
    A gloved hand suddenly grabbed the priest’s chin and forced his face round.
    “Take a good look.”
    Prendegast blinked and tried to make out the features. The man was wearing a black cap, which he took off to reveal short blond hair. That meant nothing to him. But the features did. The small nose, the half smile on the pinched lips, but most of all the eyes—so brown that he could hardly distinguish between iris and pupil. Oh, sweet Jesus, was it really him, the one who’d brought him down? After all these years?
    The intruder let go of his chin and laughed. “And my name is?”
    The priest licked his lips and reached for the bottle. It was knocked off the table in a swift movement, smashing on the flagstones. The smell rose up to taunt him.
    “What did you do that for?”
    The hand was on him again, this time tightening on his throat. “What’s my name, pederast?”
    “Les…Leslie Dunn.”
    The grip loosened.
    “Is the correct answer, Father. You win tonight’s star prize.” His attacker’s face was close to his. “Ask me what it is, you pig.”
    “Please, I’ll do anything…” He broke off as the pressure increased again. “Money…I’ve got…money.”
    “Is that right, Father Bugger of Boys?” There was another empty laugh. “Well, that’s the one thing I don’t need. Ask me what you’ve won.”
    “Ah…can’t…can’t breath…What…what have I won?”
    He was pushed down onto the chair. Before the priest could resist, thick rope was being passed around his arms and upper body.
    The face was up against his. He could smell mint on the breath of the altar boy he’d abused.
    “You’ve won a first-class ticket on the midnight express to hell.”
    The last thing Father Norman Prendegast saw was a shining silver knife moving to and fro in front of his eyes.
    The last thing he