70
The room smelled of blood, so thick that she could almost taste it…
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Amelia scarcely heard the words escape her mouth as she crossed herself and clasped the rosary tighter in her hands.
The little dark-red wooden beads didn’t give her the strength they once did. As she stared at the silver cross that dangled between her fingers, she knew her traditional faith in God had died a long time ago and part of her felt like a fraud.
From inside the confessional, Father Malcolm Wainwright shifted his weight awkwardly, but never broke his concentration. He continued to remain silent, awaiting the inevitable confession.
But the confession never came.
The silence felt as though it would swallow him whole. He turned his head slightly, peering through the ornate carvings of the wooden partition, but could see little in the darkness.
His eyes were not what they used to be but he could just make out the outline of her face, and where the light crept through the small cracks in the wood, he saw the most beautiful shade of red hair. Like fire, it seemed to reflect in his eyes, flecks of light dancing across his iris.
‘Take your time, my child. Trust in God.’
Amelia closed her eyes, squeezed her rosary, but remained silent.
Then she turned to face him, her hands placed flat against the partition, her fingertips poking through the spaces in the wood.
The cross on the rosary was swaying back and forth against the wood, like a crude attempt at Morse code.
Wainwright saw her eyes for the first time as a stray beam of light caught the brightest shades of green, the colour of a turquoise sea.
Her eyes started to mist as she brought her face closer, her breathing heavy, her lips just inches from his face.
‘Do you remember the girl, Father?’ Her voice rasped from within her throat as her demeanour changed.
Wainwright frowned as Amelia contorted her body, until she was pressed against the wooden partition.
‘You remember, Father? She tried to tell, to cry for help.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘There were times you could’ve stopped it. All the pain she suffered… You had the chance to set her soul free, but instead you did nothing.’
Wainwright felt the air in the room change, and for the first time in all his years in the ministry, he felt what could only be described as fear.
What could I have done?
Amelia saw the recognition flicker across his eyes. Her mouth pulled into a grin, her eyes knowing. ‘There’s blood on your hands, Father. Can’t you smell it, feel it on your skin?’
Wainwright snapped.
‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ he said, trying to control his voice. ‘I want you to leave immediately and…’ He trailed off as he heard someone approach the curtain to his compartment.
The last thing Wainwright saw was the flash of light against
