Father Aguillard looked over his shoulder and tried to put the key to his door in the lock. It wouldn’t go, as if the key was too big for it, as if he’d drawn the wrong one from his pocket. He drew a sleeve over his eyes, stinging with sweat, and peered with renewed focus at the small dark slot, knowing it had to be the right one for he only carried the one key. As a travelling Father of the Church, what need had he of chests or doors? He’d been given the key by the Church on his arrival. He knew it must fit. He tried to breathe a little slower and be more measured and deliberate in his actions. He thought about, once he was packed, returning the key to the Church courtesy of the mail service. Certainly not by hand. He had no intention of staying in Arras a moment longer. Not now, not any more, not now the city wasn’t safe.
He cursed, a foul word he’d learnt whilst travelling in Northern Spain, for which he immediately made an apology under his breath. As if by way of thanking him for acknowledging the sincerity of his regret at the offence, the end of the key vanished into the hole and the lock gave a welcoming click, the key turning smoothly in the mechanism. The rotund Priest breathed a little deeper and slower. With a final glance over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He shut the door to the small, but perfectly acceptable, accommodation provided to all travelling Priests and Fathers at the Cathedral fast behind him, and locked it with a single turn of the key. He tested the door and leaned against it. Finally he felt a little capitulation in the fear and panic inside him. He was now safe, for the moment at least. He could pack and leave within the hour, maybe thirty minutes if he was quick. He could commandeer a horse from the Cathedral stables and ride like the wind from the city. Or perhaps he could slink from the city silently on foot, using the darkness which now embraced Arras, not stopping until he was miles from the accursed place. Once he was in the wilds of France, no one would ever find him, not unless he wanted to be found.
The options excited and emboldened him. For the first time since he heard the news of Father Andreas’ death, he felt confidence returning. And he always prided himself on his confidence. After all, wasn’t he the Father who walked where others feared to tread? Was he not the Father who’d entered the beasts’ lair, had conversed with the enemy and had won the trust and loyalty of those shunned and feared by others of his faith?
But Father Andreas’ death had scared him, Father Andreas who had shown so much willing and so much spirit. Aguillard had known at once, as soon as he’d heard the news that Andreas was dead, that the game was up, that things were changing, that they were closing the loop. He never believed for an instant the story about the heart attack. Aguillard was many things but he wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t naive.
But he was impetuous, he always had been, and he’d lost his temper. He’d shouted at his fellow conspirators and he’d said that the plot had gone too far and then he’d threatened to reveal it. He regretted the words now. Of course he knew he would never reveal the plans. He’d invested too much, he’d worked too hard considering, preparing, making sure everything was followed according to the plan, making sure everyone knew what their tasks were and that they followed them to the letter. That no one talked. That no one let slip what was being undertaken. But he wasn’t sure that anyone believed his word was safe anymore. And so here he was running because, in a moment of maddening rage, he’d played a hand he’d feared Father Andreas had played the day before.
Father Aguillard reached the end of the narrow corridor and paused.
Strange. He could feel a breeze coming from an open window, the chill of the night time air in the apartment. And yet he was sure he’d shut the windows before leaving earlier in the evening? And that smell, a quite dreadful smell, like rotting drains coming up from behind the door. He crinkled his noise and went to push it open, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
A voice greeted his entrance and he swallowed, a chill creeping over him not brought on by the cool of the open window alone.
“Why don’t you sit down, Father Aguillard?” the voice asked gently. “You look like you’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I have.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Father Andreas, why did he have to die?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“You’re going to kill me too, aren’t you?” Aguillard asked the figure, sat before the open window.
“Goodness me, Father Aguillard, you do ask a lot of questions!”
“I should have asked more,” he growled, finding some of his old spirit others so admired.
“Quite.” The figure moved, shifting something from under its legs. “So, have you spoken to anyone about what we have done?”
Aguillard throat tightened and went dry.
“No,” he said, the spirit immediately seeping out of him. He shook his head like a scolded child. “No, I haven’t said a word.”
“That’s good.” The figure lent down and dragged the thing it was lifting up over its head.
Aguillard leapt up from the chair, knocking it sideways, and cried out in a voice he never knew he possessed, instantly bursting into tears. He walked backwards, eyes fixed on the figure before him. It was then that he fell. “Please!” he cried, as the shadow stalked over him. He smelt its breath, hot and putrid. He screamed, but only until his face was ripped clean off in a single crisp bite.