The Messiah Secret - James Becker [30]
This pain was different, even worse than before, a searing, burning agony that seemed unbearable. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Suddenly Killian felt he couldn’t breathe. He reached up and tore the rough gag from his mouth, gulped in a lungful of air and screamed. After a few seconds, the pain faded and he felt more in control. He looked in the mirror again. The treatment, such as it was, did seem to be working. The blood flow had clearly diminished, at least around the fresh, straight cut he’d made with the scissors.
Gritting his teeth, Killian lifted the soldering iron again and pressed it once more to the top of his ear. And once more he screamed.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he’d managed to stop all the bleeding, though the side of his head felt as if it was on fire. The wound to the top of his ear looked appalling, a rough crust of red and black burnt flesh, where the tip of the soldering iron had done its work. He hoped it would now start to heal.
Gingerly, taking infinite care, he applied a salve to the injury. That cooled the burning sensation, at least a little, but did nothing for the pain. He took a clean cotton pad, rested it gently against his ear and cautiously wrapped a bandage around his head to hold it in place, grimacing as the pressure increased. Finally he swallowed half a dozen painkillers – three times the recommended dose, but he needed something to reduce the agony.
He walked out of the bathroom – he’d clean up the mess in the sink later, when he felt better – and stumbled down the corridor to the lounge, grabbing a bottle of whisky and a glass. He slumped into a recliner near the window, poured a generous two fingers into the glass and downed it in a couple of gulps. The fiery liquid seared his throat as he swallowed it, then settled warmly, comfortingly in his stomach. He eased backwards, turning his head to avoid his torn ear touching the fabric of the chair, and lay there, glad his ordeal was over.
As the painkillers started to kick in, the throbbing ache from the side of his head began to subside. Killian thought back over the events of the last few weeks, wondering if he could have handled things differently. He shook his head, and instantly wished he hadn’t as a fresh spike of pain lanced through his head.
It had begun a couple of years earlier, with a visit from a former colleague, Father Mitchell, a deeply troubled man who’d long been aware of Killian’s encyclopedic knowledge of Church history, its doctrine and practices, and without doubt this had influenced his decision to break the sacred trust of the confessional.
Killian closed his eyes and replayed the conversation in his mind.
‘Do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’ Mitchell had asked him.
‘Of course. Anything learned in the confessional is to be kept between you, your parishioner and God.’
‘Do you think there are any circumstances when that trust can be breached? Suppose one of your parishioners confesses to murder? What then?’
‘The position of the Church is unequivocal. What’s said in the confessional is sacred. You should encourage your parishioner to surrender to the police, of course, and confess to his crime. But you yourself may not breach that trust and approach the authorities.’
Mitchell had nodded, because he had already known the orthodox answers to those questions. He’d paused and Killian had been struck by his haunted, almost terrified look.
‘Then you must be my confessor, Michael. Hear my confession. Right here, right now.’ Mitchell leaned across the table and seized his arm with a grip so firm it actually hurt.
‘Very well,’ Killian had said, reluctantly.
Mitchell had explained that a couple