CHAPTER 35

Father Doyle stood at the arrivals pick up point outside Belfast airport, his overnight bag by his feet. Back in the eighties, there would have been a luxury saloon with a diocese chauffeur. All they could muster in the twilight years of his vocation was a bloody local cab firm he thought, as a dirty looking white Skoda pulled curb side, a piece of paper with his name crudely written in black marker, was taped to the passenger window.

Picking up his bag, he opened the rear door, tossed it onto the seat and climbed in. After hearing about the twisted killings in Leek, supposedly in the name of the Lord; the diocese had summoned him, which came as a surprise, given he'd not darkened the doors of The Catholic Church's administrative centre at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Armagh in almost fifteen years: his last calling was to receive a commendation for services to the homeless.

An hour later, the taxi dropped him off outside the administrative building, next to the glorious St Patrick’s Cathedral, surrounded by clusters of huge Ash trees in the heart of Northern Ireland: a powerful symbol of the Catholic Church’s presence on the emerald isle.

A priest Doyle put in his early thirties held out his hand outside the imposing main entrance. ‘Father Doyle, lovely to meet you; trust you had a safe journey?’ he said ushering him into the building.

‘It’s an unexpected visit to be honest, but I must go where the Lord sends me,’ he said, closely following him down the narrow Minton tiled corridor, the vaulted stone ceiling weighing heavy on his shoulders.

The first floor corridor was wider, and a mixture of biblical art and religious iconography adorned the oak panelled walls. It saddened him how much wealth this building contained, when hundreds of parishes in the UK had to practically beg the diocese for funds to repair roofs and other mandatory main­tenance.

***

One-hour-forty-five-minutes later, Father Doyle struggled to comprehend the one-sided conversation he'd tried to engage in with the Diocese. The implications of which meant his work with the homeless would be closely monitored, and financial support pulled, as the old demons that haunted the Catholic Church since the eighties had been resurrected by a dire soul hell bent on dragging its good name through the media mire once more.

Seated back in the Skoda, travelling to his hotel in Armagh, he stared out of the window at the rain. The skies were as dark as his fears about what would happen to his flock if he was no longer able to serve them. Swift decisive action was needed, and if anyone got in his way, the full force of the Lord would come down on them, he thought, clenching the three-inch gold cross around his neck: a symbol of Christ's suffering that would provide him the inner strength to face this challenge.

They had reached the hotel when his phone vibrated in his bag. Fishing it out, he answered the call; it was Mary, his tired eyes suddenly became alert when she said…

‘Father, I have been accused of Dani and Gary’s murders; the police say they have evidence; they’ve locked me in a cell and raided my house, God only knows what else they’ve taken. Please come home urgently.’

Father Doyle’s heart hammered in his chest, swallowing hard, he visualized the box containing more ledgers and records he and Mary rescued from the fire at Our Lady of St Patrick's all those years ago. Files they’d foolishly kept in case the Catholic Church tried to blackmail him.