Bishop Leonardo Grochea sat patiently in the waiting room situated on the top floor of the palace of the Holy Office, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the varnished surface of the desk next to him. Located at the southern boundary of Vatican City, the building housed the Curia Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Considered by many as the guard dog of Christianity, Grochea had always considered himself immensely fortunate to work in such an important division of the Church, but this was the first time he had felt so concerned about their role.
This modest building held vast swathes of Catholic history within its walls and although working here by day, he felt ever more like a stranger as he tussled with the difficult issues which had brought him to the Prefect Archbishop’s office in the first place. With the news of Father Davies’s unspeakable actions plastered across the morning’s papers, he could only guess where it would all lead in the minds of the public. Father Davies had been a respected colleague for some years before his abdication from the clergy and, even though Grochea had not been very close to the man, his departure seemed a loss felt by all. That failure, however, was nothing but a minuscule blip in comparison to the ex-priest’s brutal murder of a woman and her teenage son. Never in Grochea’s lifetime had a man of the Church committed such a terrible crime as these murders and subsequent desecration of the bodies, and it still made him sick to his stomach. Even those who had known Father Davies only from a distance were shocked that such a mild-mannered man could turn into little more than a vicious beast.
As for the exorcism and possession elements of the incident, well, that was what Grochea was here for and he only hoped the archbishop shared his concerns and therefore agreed with the solutions he was about to offer. Coupled with the horrendous and senseless killing of three local bishops and their congregations the day before, it had produced a dark cloud of despair hanging over all those who worked at the Vatican, as well as in the wider community beyond. These were dark days indeed.
At the end of the room two white double doors opened inwards and Archbishop Angelo Federar strode through and made his way over to the waiting bishop, who rose swiftly to his feet and met him halfway.
‘I apologise for your long wait, Leonardo, but I suppose you’ve seen the morning papers?’
‘I have. It’s been an awful shock,’ the bishop replied, sounding genuinely subdued by the news. ‘And that’s the reason I’m here.’
Federar looked immediately troubled, a frown appearing on his brow. ‘You’d better come in then.’
With a nod from Grochea, the two men walked briskly over into the archbishop’s office, with Federar closing the doors gently behind them.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Federar insisted and dutifully Grochea sat down on a red satin court chair as the archbishop made his way back around to the other side of his desk. This room was not as lavish as some other offices in the Vatican but its shiny wood panelled-doors and the classic grey plaster provided a humble décor that suited the archbishop’s personality to a T.
Federar sat himself down in the green leather armchair positioned behind the desk, below a picture of the current pope, sitting back into it comfortably and placing his hands in his lap. ‘So what can I do for you, Leonardo, on a day of such awful news?’
Grochea squirmed a little in his seat, not because it was uncomfortable but because what he was about to say was unlikely to receive a warm reception. ‘I know your recent feelings on the subject but, given what has just happened, I need to ask if you would reconsider your decision to keep the Prophecy strictly off limits.’
Federar looked unimpressed and his mouth curved downwards like a bulldog’s. ‘And which Prophecy would that be?’
The archbishop’s spurious attempt to play dumb only emboldened Grochea’s resolve, and he sat right up in his chair defiantly. ‘Did you read what Father Davies wrote on the wall in the blood of the woman and child he butchered?’
Federar’s expression changed not one iota but his nostrils did inflame somewhat, which was a tell-tale-sign for those who knew him that he was either unimpressed or annoyed. ‘I did read the report but hardly think it has any tangible bearing on what we’re discussing here.’
‘No tangible bearing!’ Grochea exclaimed, raising his eyebrow. ‘I admit I’ve not read it myself but I have it on good authority that those are the exact words used in the Prophecy, are they not?’
Archbishop Federar opened his mouth in surprise and he began to slowly bob his head. ‘Oh, you mean the three days of Darkness Prophecy?’
‘Yes, that one,’ Grochea replied, giving him an unimpressed stare.
‘I’m not sure how or what you’ve heard, Leonardo, but, that aside, I don’t think it really qualifies as being relevant – besides which it isn’t even recognised officially by the Holy See.’
‘Right, Angelo, and that’s why it’s hidden away so securely?’
Federar’s nostrils flared again, but after a few moments his shoulders sagged and he slumped forward and ditched his formal demeanour. ‘Few people in this office have ever seen that scrap of paper…’
‘Father Davies did, though,’ Grochea interrupted, doubling down against the archbishop’s intransigence on the subject.
‘That’s my point, Leonardo. The poor man lost his mind and reverted to writing about the very thing that consumed him… Tragic? Absolutely, but to think it in some way gives credence to justifying any aspect of that prophecy is just lazy thinking. And that aside, you – or anyone else – should not even be aware of what it says.’
‘That’s immaterial now,’ Grochea replied, looking undeterred as he remained sitting stiffly in his chair. ‘And maybe you’re right. But if there is even a sliver of truth in it, then it is in everyone’s interests to at least allow others to conduct a proper examination of the document.’
Federar looked like a man who had just been battered over the head with a truth he was not quite ready to accept yet and, although he said nothing, he now looked po-faced and his nostrils went into overdrive.
‘I understand why it’s been kept hidden all these years,’ Grochea continued sympathetically, deliberately adopting a yielding tone of voice, ‘but should both of us choose to stick our heads in the sand when so much is at stake? Would you, at the very least, allow me access to it, or at the very most speak with his Holiness on the matter?’
Federar considered this proposal and then, after a few thoughtful moments, his expression began to soften and he sat back again in his chair. ‘Very well, Leonardo, I will speak with the pontiff this evening.’
Grochea was already out of his own seat and resting both hands on the archbishop’s grand cherry-wood desk. ‘Thank you. It’s all I ask.’
Federar offered him an obliging nod, then he wiped his open palm down one side of his face, the frustration he felt obvious. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to attend to.
‘Of course,’ Federar said, in truth just wanting this man to leave his office. ‘And please refrain from discussing this business with anyone else – for the time being.’
‘I will, Angelo. I know how difficult this is for you,’ Grochea replied, with a complete understanding of the bind the archbishop was in. ‘It will probably amount to nothing.’
That comment had Federar suddenly looking nervous. ‘I hope so, Leonardo, because if you’re wrong… then God help us all.’