Don't Look Back (4 page)

‘You need bandaging up,' Harry said with concern.

‘It's OK, Harry.'

‘It's not OK – your hands look sore, and you should drink sweet tea for shock.'

He was being so considerate, but I waved aside his concerns. There was only one thing on my mind. ‘Can I see the note?'

Harry ruefully handed it over and with fumbling fingers I opened it. There were four lines of Latin text written in an elaborately curved hand.

‘You risked your life for that?' he said incredulously, peering over my shoulder. ‘More Latin!'

I nodded grimly. ‘I'm sure it's Patrick leaving me another message, this time in his best handwriting.'

‘Why go to all that trouble?'

I shrugged and jumped up, my ears still buzzing. It was probably the adrenalin rush of the shock of nearly dying, or just the blood pumping crazily round my body, but I felt totally wired. I roamed around the flat, my mind bursting. Patrick's disappearance, the sparkling flat, the secret writing in the notebook, the key, and now this piece of paper attached to the clock face …

‘Patrick has a brilliant mind,' I said, more to myself than to Harry, ‘despite his attempts to destroy his brain cells, and he always got a kick out of setting me puzzles, but he's never done anything as elaborate as this.'

‘What do you think …
really
?' Harry asked.

‘I think this is Patrick still playing his mind games, trying to get me to follow him, but … it feels like there's something more. I think he might really be in trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

I tried to swallow, recalling the details of Patrick's psychological reports that I'd heard my parents discussing over the years. They'd confirmed how messed-up he was. Harry watched me pacing backwards and forwards across the room.

‘He might have had some kind of breakdown,' I said eventually.

‘And the weird notes or clues are a kind of cry for help? For
you
to help, Sinead?'

‘Maybe.'

I went into the kitchen to make us both a coffee. Harry followed me and tried to take over, but I needed to keep busy. In one of the cupboards was a tiny jar of own-brand coffee with just enough granules for two small cups. I switched on the kettle, scraped out the jar and filled two stained cups with boiling water. I was suddenly overcome with a sense of absolute conviction about what I needed to do.

My voice was resolute. ‘I need to find Patrick, whatever it takes.'

Harry glared. ‘Remember what I said, Sinead. You need to shake him off and think about yourself for once.'

‘After I find Patrick, then I'll be able to move on.' I gave him a look. ‘You said you'd help.'

Harry's expression was weary but resigned. ‘So how do we start?'

‘Solve his
clues
… wherever they lead me. They were meant for me.'

Harry placed one hand on his chest. ‘You know you can rely on me, Sinead.'

He was always there for me, though I didn't treat him as well as he deserved. I hated myself for being this way. There was something warped inside me that made me lash out at the people who cared. But that was all going to change. I studied Harry now. He did himself no favours, with his bed-head hair and the air of someone who never looked in a mirror. He didn't stand out in a crowd, but once you knew him it was impossible not to like him. I smiled at him warmly and went back into the living room to study Patrick's message.

Harry joined me on the rug, eagerly expectant, his untamed curls framing his face. It was only when the temperature had reached the seventies that he'd finally taken off his woolly hat. My stomach gave a loud grumble.

‘Hungry?' he asked.

I just murmured, my eyes still studying the paper. Two of the Latin words had caught my eye. Years of church attendance meant I was able to translate them:
domus dei
– house of God.

‘I'll go and fetch you something to eat,' Harry insisted, jumping to attention and making for the door. ‘Stay here and rest.'

I shook my head. ‘I can't rest yet. There's somewhere I have to go.'

*

Saint Peter's church was less than five hundred metres from Patrick's flat and I made my way there, dodging the after-work revellers lining the pavements. I wrinkled my nose. Simmering concrete gave off an ugly smell and the drains weren't that fragrant either. We were so starved of sun for most of the year that the first glimmer made everyone think they were abroad. The outside areas of the pubs and restaurants were littered with tables and chairs occupied by people eating, drinking and languidly smoking under huge umbrellas. The temperature had risen even higher in the last hour, but there were grey clouds moving in and the first stirrings of a breeze. Some plastic glasses moved ominously and I gazed up at the sky, certain there was a storm brewing.

There was a short cut through the nearby park but my path was littered with sunbathers, picnickers and entwined couples gazing adoringly into each other's eyes. The air was filled with the heavy scent of wild flowers and newly mown
grass. A girl lying on her back adjusted her sunglasses and squinted at me. Her brief scornful glance reminded me why I had more guys as friends than girls. I was compelled to look again and found myself almost blinded by her glow. Her skin was the colour of dripping honeycomb and she was so petite in her micro sundress and strappy sandals. I saw myself through her eyes in my sweats and shapeless T-shirt. I couldn't even carry off the sporty look that was everywhere, all toned and perspiring with a bottle of spring water glued to my lips.

I limped on, my body still curiously weightless, certain that when tomorrow came I wouldn't be able to lift my arms. As I turned the corner into the square the sound of singing reached me and I slowed my pace and hovered outside the church. I was surprised to hear a service going on at this time of night until a notice advertising evensong made sense of it. There was something about church choirs that made my spine tingle, a reaction to the pure voices soaring into the vaulted ceiling like beautiful songbirds nesting in the topmost branches. Tonight they seemed doubly poignant.

People began to file out, and I waited impatiently until I thought that everyone had left. With a deep breath, and for no obvious reason given that the doorway was over two metres high, I ducked to enter. There was only one solitary figure left in the church, wearing a black cassock buttoned all the way from the neck to the floor. He looked like he was in his early fifties, slightly plump with thick greying
hair and a ruddy complexion. It wasn't hard to work out who he was.

I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Sorry, you're trying to close.'

He digested this for a moment with a wry smile. ‘It's a church. The opening hours are flexible. Would you like a moment to yourself?'

This was embarrassing; the priest thought I was in need of spiritual solace when all I wanted was to pick his brains. ‘Erm, no, not really. Thing is … I need help translating something. It's in Latin and … this was the only place I could think of to come.'

His eyes definitely twinkled. ‘Well, you might be fortunate. I did study Latin. Hopefully I might be qualified for the task.'

‘More than qualified,' I responded, feeling a certain triumph. Patrick had meant for me to come here. I was definitely in the right place.

The priest took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and propped them on the bridge of his nose. ‘May I ask what this relates to?'

I shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and caught a glimpse of my T-shirt; it was filthy and bloody. I couldn't imagine how I must look.

‘Sorry … Father … I've been cleaning my brother's flat and … had a slight accident. There wasn't time to change.'

‘Does this belong to him?'

‘Kind of …'

The priest took the note from me and sat down in one of the pews. It seemed impolite not to join him and I walked down the centre aisle, instinctively dropping one knee in front of the altar. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable I slid into the wooden bench beside him. I glanced around. The church was a riot of shimmering gilt-edged mosaics and different-coloured marble and coloured friezes. The onion dome with suspended lantern hinted at some kind of eastern influence. I had a sudden memory of long, boring Masses every Sunday, when Patrick would pinch me and make me cry. My mother would throw me desperate looks, wanting everyone to think we were the perfect family. I felt empty inside.

The priest took off his glasses and stared at me. ‘It's a very impressive piece of writing,' he said, appearing strangely moved.

‘Is it?' I answered in surprise. ‘Latin wasn't Patrick – my brother's – favourite subject at school.'

‘This isn't schoolboy Latin,' the priest said. ‘Nor is it classical. I would call it more … ecclesiastical – a style used in the liturgies and documents of the Church. It's unpretentious but still very elegant and correct.'

‘Wow,' I gushed, hoping to sound impressed. ‘And what does it say?'

‘Well … it's quite abstract but … it talks about a place, a place where time will have no meaning … one second will seem like an eternity, as those … beneath the earth cry out for release …' He paused and gave me
a sharp glance. I nodded to spur him on. ‘Torments will precede the joy of release,' he continued, ‘and the fire will heal. A church is mentioned – the first church – a gateway to a place of penance where the dead will weep and the lake run red.'

‘Torments, fire, the dead weeping …' I repeated, chills running through me. This message was seriously creepy and seemed to ooze pain, death and suffering. Why would Patrick write about the afterlife? Unless he'd been thinking of doing something stupid. My stomach lurched horribly.

‘Would you like me to write it down for you?' the priest asked.

I nodded. ‘Yes, please.' He produced a pen from somewhere and began to scribble on Patrick's note. I found it hard to sit still and the movement of the second hand of my watch was distracting me.

‘Could it be taken from the Bible?' I asked.

‘I think not,' he replied quickly, as if I was doubting his knowledge of the holy book.

He handed the note back to me, the black ink still glistening.

‘Patrick has probably copied it from somewhere. Sorry to have bothered you … Father.'

‘It was no bother,' he assured me. ‘It must have a special significance for him.'

‘Do you think he's describing hell?' I asked edgily. ‘I noticed the word
infernus
in the text, which reminded me of infernal hellfire?'

The priest listened patiently, a curve of amusement on his lips. ‘
Infernus
can mean hell, but it can also mean subterranean or underground. In this context I've translated it as
beneath the earth.
Is… is your brother spiritual?'

It was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Well, he doesn't speak in tongues or have visions—'

‘And what about you?'

‘That's easy,' I answered immediately. ‘I'm beyond redemption.' He looked so shocked that I babbled, ‘I mean, my mum always said I was … in a jokey way, but it kind of stuck.'

The priest shook his head in disagreement but I refused to meet his gaze. ‘You're very angry,' he said. ‘I wonder what or who could have made you so angry.'

My teeth clenched, thinking about Patrick. ‘You really wouldn't want to know.'

He spread his arms. ‘Try me, I'm a good listener … it goes with the job.'

Damn. I could feel tears pricking behind my eyes because he was being so kind and sympathetic. It must have been delayed shock from the accident because I rarely cried and didn't want to now.

‘Sorry, Father, but I don't have enough time.'

‘I guessed that. You've consulted your wristwatch at least ten times.'

Now I felt as if I had been plain rude and I was filled with an overwhelming need to explain. ‘It's not just
tonight – I don't have enough time in general. I mean, that text could have been written for me …
a place where time will have no meaning … one second will seem like an eternity.
'

‘I don't understand.' The priest smiled, his bushy eyebrows arched.

I didn't want to be here like this, pouring my heart out to a complete stranger, but he was drawing me in and I was too tired to fight it. ‘When I was little I almost died, and I have this kind of obsession, all to do with … time running out.'

He pursed his lips. ‘Why would that worry someone of such a tender age as you?'

‘Well … I've got so much I want to do and I'm not sure I'll be able fit it all in.'

‘Before what?'

Before I die, of course.
But I didn't say this, just sat fidgeting on the hard bench and tapping my watch face.

‘Do you want my advice?'

I didn't, but I nodded anyway. I could sense a sermon coming. ‘Try to accept that there is
never
enough time … for any of us … so make the most of what you have. We're all living on borrowed time … borrowed from the man Himself.'

‘Borrowed time,' I repeated woodenly.

‘Because this life we're living now isn't the main feature … it's only the trailer.'

The priest scrutinized my face with a concentration
that made me squirm. ‘Has your brother ever visited this church?' he asked unexpectedly.

‘I don't know, Father. Why?'

He frowned. ‘There was a young man studying our statue of Saint Peter recently; he seemed quite rapt by it.'

‘But … what makes you think it was Patrick?'

‘It only occurred to me now but … your features are strikingly similar.'

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. Patrick had been here. I was still following his footsteps – the flat, the clock tower and now this church.