and sliced through his withered skin.
Pain ripped through every muscle in his body. As blood soaked through his garments, he swore he could feel his soul screaming for release.
Looking up to see his attacker he saw only the woman, now standing in front of him. Her hair was like fire with the glow of sunlight cascading through the stained-glass windows behind her.
She grasped his hair, slammed his head back against the confessional, and brought her face closer to his. Despite the pain in his body, he could smell her sweet perfume so vividly.
‘You remember this face, Father.’ Her lips were just inches away from his. ‘Do you remember these eyes? My voice?’
Wainwright tried to scream but blood pooled in his throat, a thick taste of copper.
He knew her. And he silently damned her to Hell.
His eyelids fluttered involuntary as the energy began to drain from his body.
‘What does it feel like to hurt, Father? The pain you feel is nothing compared to the years of torment you let be inflicted on the innocent. Too many years you’ve kept that secret that stops you from sleeping at night.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s blood on your hands, priest…you shouldn’t have helped him that day.’
Tears pricked Wainwright’s eyes. How does she know? There were only three there that day…and the other.
Amelia took the cross hanging from her rosary and pressed it hard against his dry lips.
Wainwright’s eyes widened, begging in silent prayer for forgiveness.
‘For all the years you’ve preached your poison, and for the tormented souls who will never be free from your idea of faith, I shall unite you with God, and He will decide the punishment for your soul.’
Wainwright tried to fight her off as she forced the cross past his lips and into his throat. Much stronger than she appeared, Amelia pushed his jaw up hard, and pulled on the rosary beads until they broke free.
They scattered to the floor, dancing over the flagstones, as he began to choke.
His lungs felt like they were on fire, desperate for air. He fell to his knees, his hands reaching up and clutching at Amelia’s clothes.
She stepped back and watched him crawl after her, one hand at his throat and the other reaching out, silently begging.
Amelia’s face was resolute as he wheezed and spluttered, his face turning vivid shades of blue and purple. He collapsed face down, his forehead hitting the flagstones hard. His eyes felt heavy. He let them close, as his breath slowed to a whisper.
Wainwright’s last thoughts were not of his childhood or a fond trip down memory lane. They were of a moment in a not so distant part of history.
Yes, Wainwright remembered her.
He also remembered a large oak staircase bathed in blood and a door closing, containing the screams within. Even now he knew it was too late to repent and change the fate of his soul.
He recalled a quote he’d read once. Something that had stayed with him all this time, scratching away in the back of his mind: The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.
Subconsciously, Wainwright had always known that one day his past would come back to haunt him.
Now the time had come, he welcomed it with open arms.
Ice-blue irises pulled tight leaving the pupils the size of a pin prick as she stared skyward, hand raised to her brow, useless against the might of the sun’s rays.
Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters felt a shiver shoot up her spine, like icy skeletal fingers scraping against her skin, despite the heat of the day. It was early morning, but the temperature on the dash of her car had said it was close to 24 degrees already.
Her shirt was sticking to her back underneath her suit jacket like a second skin. The air was muggy, close, pulling at each breath she took, yet despite this she still felt like ice, right down to her bones.
A feeling of dread pulled at her inside as she lowered the sunglasses from the top of her head, back down on her face.
She stared at the door ahead, the entrance to the looming tower block opposite her. A place she’d just left. A place she hated. A place that had become more somewhere to call home than her house several miles out of Haverbridge.
Claire’s mind drifted to dark thoughts. They came thick and fast lately. Like a nightmare that didn’t end after she woke each morning. It continued long through the days. Sometimes it threatened to swallow her whole.
Sometimes Claire wondered if perhaps that’d be easier.
Just let all the fight be torn out of her and scattered to the wind, until all that remained was an empty shell.
Wouldn’t that be too easy?
She felt her BlackBerry vibrating inside her trouser pocket. She’d turned the ringer off whilst she’d been inside the building, inside that wretched flat that housed someone she’d long since come to loathe and love in equal measure.
She glanced at the screen, her grip tightened on the phone resting in her palm. Her finger hovered over the Answer button.
How easy it would be to just throw it away, forget her job, forget this life. Forget everything that’d passed and start again.
This is not you, she told herself. He does not define who you are, what you do, what comes next. She glanced up at the tower block again as she answered the call.
Take back the control.
‘DCI Winters,’ she said. Her lips were dry, cracked, sore. She touched her fingers on her free hand to her bottom lip, pulled them away. Tiny dots of blood were on her fingertips.
‘Guv?’ said Detective Constable Gabriel Harper at the other end of the phone.
Claire snapped back to the here and now. She’d detected something in his voice that was different. Whatever he was going to say, wasn’t going to be good.
‘What is it, Gabe?’
There was a drawn-out pause. Claire could hear his breathing. It was far from normal. A new sensation gripped at her insides. She bit down on her bottom lip, made herself turn away from the tower block.
‘What’s wrong, Harper?’ she said as she crossed the road towards where she’d parked her car earlier, a steely edge returning to her voice.
She heard Harper’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Guv, this isn’t something I can explain over the phone.’ He paused. ‘We need you back now, something’s happened at one of the local churches. Reports are coming in about a woman collapsing outside St Mary’s, completely covered in blood…someone else’s, not her own.’
