“。 . . saddens me that young Basil did not come to me with his problems. Or to Father White, or Father Francis. We are all here for you children. We will listen and we will help you if you have feelings of despair, if you need guidance . . .”
As if drawn to it, Andrew’s eyes slide to the altar once more and a sick feeling stabs his guts. His nose twitches at the stink of dust and mildew radiating from the rodent-chewed fabric, and he abhors the way it congeals on the floor, misshapen and ridiculous looking. His eyes twitch higher, and he feels a fresh wave of despair, of deep-seeded remorse, at what rests atop the blood-stained altar and the ancient cloth which hides it from view.
Basil’s coffin.
The child’s corpse tucked snugly within.
And now Andrew thinks he can smell other things, as well: the thick planks of knotted pine Johnson used to construct the box and—yes, another aroma, one that lies beneath the woody smell of pine, the mildewed rot of the tapestry—the body itself, of course. The decomposing corpse bloated with gases, the eyes sunken, the flesh cold.
“。 . . praying on the matter, we have decided to bury Basil in the church graveyard. Although what he did is a crime against God, against nature . . . he was also just a child. An innocent. Confused and haunted by grief. Who are we to judge a child? Does a shepherd blame a lamb for wandering near a dangerous wood? No, he gathers the lamb and returns him to the pasture. The burial . . .”
Yes, yes, Andrew smells the boy well now. It’s a putrid, awful smell. He adjusts himself in the hard chair, leans away from the altar, casually puts a hand over his mouth, his nose, as if pondering Poole’s words. He shifts his legs yet again—clumsily so, growing agitated—and nearly kicks the heavy candelabra to the side of him, one of two that bookend the pastoral chairs. The tall, heavy candelabras stand sentry on either side of Basil’s coffin, holding aloft melting candles burning bright, liquid black smoke curling from the wicks.
Finally, Andrew leans forward, puts both feet flat on the floor, and commands his body to stop fidgeting. He curses softly under his breath, tries to reign in his thoughts and discomforts, his anxiety. He looks out at the boys, wondering if they are watching him, judging him, mocking his obvious irritation.
But no . . . all eyes are on Poole. The children are more rapt at this speech about their friend’s ugly death than they’ve been at any sermon Andrew has yet attended. He takes a deep breath, begins to feel better. His eyes travel over the boys, and he notices Simon and Jonah are sitting near the back, further away than they should be. He frowns. They must have moved . . .
What was that?
Andrew’s attention is drawn to the double-doors that lead out of the chapel toward the foyer. They’re closed, but the morning light coming from the foyer illuminates the seam, fills the wide gap where the two doors meet. A vertical string of silver.
A shadow passes by, causing the light to pulse.
There!
And again . . . perhaps . . . multiple shadows? Children?
That silver string of light darkens, becomes light again, flickering from some mysterious movement . . .
Now it goes dark again . . . and stays that way.
Someone is standing outside those doors.
Andrew’s brow furrows. Who could it be? One of the kitchen staff? But why? Perhaps they are curious? After all, it’s not every day a boy is murdered at St. Vincent’s.
And there it was . . . murder. The word emerging from a sealed box in his mind, a black thing lifting the lid and crawling out into his consciousness.
Murder, then. Not suicide.
Is that what he believes? And if this is the truth of the matter . . . what needs to be done?
No, impossible. Pull yourself together!
He pulls his thoughts back to the present, to the issue at hand. If there are boys missing . . . but no. That can’t be. Therefore, it’s impossible for anyone to be outside the chapel. The kitchen staff are clearing breakfast, preparing for lunch. They’d have no business in the foyer. And if all the boys are accounted for . . .
Andrew’s thoughts freeze.
Aren’t they?
Feeling ever more anxious, Andrew looks around the chapel with renewed focus—studying faces, reciting names in his head.
Now, however, his mind plays a new trick. With each face he identifies comes a different thought, a new question: Am I looking at a murderer?
He looks more closely at each youthful visage, no longer searching for boredom, or mischief, but something far worse.
Violence. Hatred.
Evil.
Then he stops, cursing himself. Stop it, you fool! Just find out who’s missing, if anyone.
He starts again, back to the beginning, and counts heads.
“。 . . and so, we pray for his eternal soul,” Poole says, finishing his sermon. “Now, who would like to say a few words about their friend? Who wants to speak about Basil? A fond memory, perhaps. Hmm?”
None of the boys speak, nor stand. Andrew coughs lightly, nervously. Poole’s question throws him off his count, but he thinks a few might be missing. He needs to be sure, but now his eyes shift once more between the children and the double-doors. The shadow has gone, but he watches for the light to break again, hoping to confirm someone is indeed outside those doors.
Doing . . . what?
He thinks of Ben and Bartholomew in the hole. He wonders if they’re alive, or frozen. Stuck fast to the dirt like dead tree roots, needing to be pried from the cold earth, peeled free.
More coffins will be needed . . .
Andrew shakes the thought away. His mind is hysterical and strained. He must pray on these matters. For himself. For strength. He must get some sleep!
“I’ll speak.”
Andrew’s eyes snap up and, for a moment, his troubles wash away. He smiles. A delicate warmth melts away the black ice which had been forming in his chest. It’s Peter, of course. The kind, courteous boy he raised. The boy who will, one day, stand by his side as a priest.
Secretly, Andrew hopes that—if God wills it—he and Peter might someday oversee things here at St. Vincent’s. It is a pleasant idea.
The first thing I’ll do, he thinks, smiling as Peter approaches the front, is fill in that awful pit. The days of medieval torture tactics will be over.
As Peter steps up to the lectern, Poole pats him on the shoulder and steps aside. Andrew sits up, eager. For a moment, he forgets the stench of the coffin, the decay of Basil’s corpse. He focuses only on Peter.
And in doing so, forgets about counting heads, and no longer watches for shadows, which have indeed returned, now standing just outside the chapel doors.
33
I DON’T KNOW WHY I SAY ANYTHING.
I have nothing in mind, nothing planned.
But no one else is going to talk, and someone should talk. That’s how I feel, anyway. Oddly, even though other boys have passed away during my stay at the orphanage, right now the last funeral I can think on clearly is that of my parents. I was so young I barely recall what happened that day. I retain pieces: feelings more than sights. I remember being with men I didn’t know and being scared of them. Those same men took me to a graveyard where a priest spoke over two piles of dirt. It was very cold. I was shivering most of the time.
I remember feeling sad that I hadn’t said goodbye. That I hadn’t seen their bodies.
From what I was told, there wasn’t much to see.