Comes the Dark Stranger - Jack Higgins [2]
He staggered across the empty street and pushed at an iron gate. It creaked open and he passed inside. A dim light shone from an immense stained-glass window, casting diamond shadows across the tombstones in the churchyard. When he mounted the steps to the door it opened smoothly and quietly as if welcoming him, and he stepped inside.
It was quiet - very quiet. He stood at the end of the aisle and looked down towards the altar and the lamp. For some reason he walked forward, his gaze fixed on the lamp. It seemed to increase in size and to grow small again, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment.
A soft Irish voice said, ‘Excuse me, but are you all right?’
Shane turned quickly. There was a small chapel on his left, its walls decorated with a half-completed fresco. Standing looking at him was a tall, grey-haired man in overalls with a paint brush in one hand. The overalls were topped by a clerical collar.
Shane moistened his lips and tried to speak, but somehow the words got stuck in his throat and only a dry croak came out. The dizziness hit him again and he swayed forward and grasped at the pew to steady himself. An arm of surprising strength slipped round his shoulders, and he opened his eyes and tried to smile. ‘I don’t feel so good at the moment. Just let me shelter from the rain for a little while and then I’ll move on.’
The priest gave a stifled exclamation as he looked into his face. ‘God have mercy on us!’
Shane tried to pull himself free of the encircling arm. ‘I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Just let me sit down.’
The priest shook his head. ‘You need medical attention. You’re badly hurt.’
A flicker of panic moved inside Shane and he grabbed at him with shaking hands. ‘Don’t get the police! Whatever you do, don’t get the police!’
The priest looked searchingly at him and smiled gently, so that a peculiarly crooked scar on his right cheek merged with the smile, somehow lighting up the whole face. And then Shane recognized him.
‘You’re Father Costello,’ he said. ‘You were a padre with the 52nd Infantry Division in Korea.’
The priest nodded and guided him firmly along the aisle towards a small door in the far corner of the church. ‘Yes, I was in Korea. Did we ever meet?’
Shane shook his head. ‘No, but I saw you on several occasions.’ As the priest opened the door and ushered him through he went on, ‘I remember how you got that scar. You went over the top to help a wounded Chinese and he tried to carve you up.’
Father Costello’s face clouded and he sighed. ‘That’s something I prefer to forget.’
He pushed Shane into a chair. They were in the vestry. His cassock hung behind the door and a gas fire spluttered fitfully in one corner. He sat down at a battered walnut desk, unlocked one of its drawers, and took out a bottle of brandy. He poured a generous measure into a glass and smiled. ‘That should help things for the moment.’
Shane choked as liquid fire coursed through his veins, and Father Costello pushed a packet of cigarettes towards him and took a first-aid kit from another drawer.
Shane lit a cigarette gratefully, and the priest pulled his chair closer and examined his face. After a slight pause he said, ‘You really do need a doctor to attend to this.’
Shane shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Father. I’ve got more important things on my mind.’
Father Costello sighed, and started to work quickly with swabs of cotton wool dipped in aquaflavine. As he fixed surgical tape in position over some of the worst cuts, he said calmly, ‘They made rather a mess of you, didn’t they? Whoever did it certainly made a thorough job.’
Shane pulled up his sleeves and showed him the steel bracelet encircling each wrist. ‘It was a policeman, Father,’ he said. ‘And they’re the toughest of the lot when they really get down to business.’
He stood up arid flexed his muscles gingerly. His body felt sore all over, and his