The Sin Eater (8 page)

‘That's fine,' said Colm, after they had tested it. ‘It's wedging the door shut. No one will be able to get in there until it's too late.'

They had left one oil lamp inside, but they carried the other two up the steps. In the tapestry-hung room where Sheehan had poured the wine, they tumbled books from the shelves, choosing them at random and using them to build a small bonfire at the centre of the room.

‘You realize we could be destroying valuable books?' said Declan, hesitating.

‘If we don't, something more precious and valuable than books might end in being destroyed,' said Colm. ‘Me.'

‘True, O King.'

‘And
don't
quote the Old Testament at me!'

‘Sorry. Will we drag some of those tapestries down while we're about it?'

They did so, and surveyed the heap of books and tapestries critically.

‘I think that's as good as we'll get,' said Colm.

‘And everything's as dry as kindling; it'll go up like the deepest cavern of hell.'

‘I hope so. This room's directly over the underground room so everything down there should burn.' He looked frightened, then said, ‘But in the long run, we're all going to burn,' and tipped the oil from the lamps over the bonfire. ‘Get ready to run as if the devil's chasing you,' he said, and Declan struck the tinder.

As the glowing tinder fell on to the bonfire and flames burst upwards, Colm cried, ‘Run!'

‘And slam the doors as we go,' gasped Declan, tumbling across the hall to the door. ‘It'll keep the fire contained for a while and we need that underground room to
burn.
'

They got outside and skidded breathlessly down the first few yards of the path, expecting every minute to hear cries and to see people running up the cliff path, ready to douse the fire. But no one appeared and a quarter of the way down they stopped to look back.

‘Nothing's happening,' said Colm, staring up at the black monolith of the tower.

‘Yes – look, there's smoke coming through the bricks on the left.'

‘Only a few wisps, though. Will we go back to make sure it's burning up?'

‘They'll be annoyed at home if we're late,' said Declan doubtfully.

‘They'll be more than annoyed if I'm hanged for Sheehan's murder. I'll go on my own if you want.'

‘No, I'll come too.'

They went back up the path, skirting the tower's front and making a cautious way around the cliff face. There was not exactly a way across the open face of this part of the Moher Cliffs, but there was a series of crevices and jutting rock spurs that made it possible to swarm partly across. Colm and Declan had clambered over these cliffs almost since they could walk, and they knew the way as well as they knew their own gardens. Even so, negotiating them was hazardous and they did not speak until they were close to the base of the watchtower.

‘It
is
burning,' said Colm, on a note of relief. ‘See over there. There're flames coming out from between the stones.'

‘And you can smell the smoke,' said Declan. ‘It's funny that you don't see the barred window of that underground room from here, isn't it? All the times we've been out here, and we've never once seen it.'

‘It'll be beyond that spur of rock,' said Colm. ‘See there, where it overhangs? We've never tried to get round there.'

‘We don't need to get round it now, do we?' The spur of rock was large and it thrust menacingly out of the rocks.

‘No, because the fire's burning up properly now; you can see the glow . . .' Colm broke off and turned to stare at Declan. The dull crimson glow mingled with the light of the approaching storm, casting a shadow over his face. ‘Did you hear that?'

‘It was the sea,' said Declan after a moment.

‘It sounded like somebody shouting,' said Colm.

‘Someone who saw the fire? Raising the alarm?'

‘I think it came from inside the tower,' said Colm.

They looked upwards, fear clutching them. The watchtower reared up into the bruised sky, the black stones already tinged with angry red.

‘Was it Sheehan?' said Declan. ‘Oh God, could he still be alive in there?'

‘We thought he was dead,' said Colm, but he too sounded uncertain.

‘But what if he wasn't? After all . . .' Declan broke off because this time they both heard the cry, and there was no mistaking it. It was Sheehan's voice and he was shouting for help.

‘
Help me
. . .'

‘What do we do?' said Colm. ‘Can we get him out?'

‘We'll have to try.' Declan began scrambling towards the jutting piece of rock, with the barred window just out of sight beyond it.

‘No!' said Colm. ‘We'd be better to go back up to the tower and get him out that way.'

‘There's no time!' said Declan angrily, and even as he spoke a column of flame shot upwards. ‘The fire'll be raging – we'd never get to that underground room. We'll have to get him out through the sea window.'

But they were both remembering that the window was only two feet square, with three thick iron bars. A cat could not get through the space, let alone a grown man.

‘We'll have to try, though,' said Declan. ‘The fire might have loosened the bars.'

Negotiating the rock spur was difficult, but there were footholds and crevices and also thick clumps of rock vegetation to cling to. The wind shrieked around them and tore at their hair, and they were both drenched from the sea spray, but eventually they got round the rock. A few feet ahead was the window to the underground room.

Nicholas Sheehan was peering through it, his face slicked with sweat and his eyes wild with terror.

‘We'll get you out!' shouted Declan. His words were snatched away by the sea, but he thought Sheehan heard.

‘The door's wedged,' said Sheehan. ‘I can't get out of here. You must get help.'

‘There isn't time. We'll try to knock out the bars and get you out this way.'

‘You'll never do it. You bloody villain, Colm Rourke, you thought you'd left me for dead, didn't you?' The words came raggedly but they were filled with hatred and fear.

‘Yes,' panted Colm. ‘But we'll put it right – I swear we will.'

They were on each side of the barred window now, but when they grasped the bars, intending to pull on them, Declan yelped with pain.

‘They're as hot as a griddle,' he said, gasping.

‘Of course they are, you fool, this whole room's heating up,' cried Sheehan. ‘The stone walls are acting as a conductor to the fire – this room's turning into a dry oven. If you don't get me out I'm going to bake to death. For Christ's sake, do something!'

‘I'll go for help,' said Colm.

‘There isn't time! Oh Jesus, it's getting hotter by the minute. Oh God, I never meant to die like this!'

‘You won't die,' said Colm. ‘We'll get you out.'

‘Then bloody do it!'

Working on the side of the cliff face, in the gathering darkness shot through with fire streaks, was appallingly difficult, but they managed to fashion a rope from Declan's sweater and Colm's scarf, and to tie it round one of the bars. But the bars were glowing so hot their hands blistered, and the first attempt to secure the makeshift rope caused the wool to shrivel.

‘Again!' cried Sheehan. ‘Wait, use this as well.' His hands shaking, he passed them a length of cord – Declan thought he had torn it from one of the tapestries.

This time the makeshift rope held and they were able to get purchase on the bars and pull.

‘It's still no use,' gasped Colm after several minutes. ‘They're stuck fast.'

Sheehan was gasping and sobbing, and waves of intense heat were belching out from the room. Declan and Colm were starting to realize with horror that they were not going to succeed. Nicholas Sheehan was going to be slowly roasted alive.

It was already happening. Sheehan's skin was flushed and shiny, and he was breathing harshly and painfully. Then, quite suddenly, he said, in a clearer voice than he had yet used, ‘You won't succeed. I'm going to die. And it'll be a dreadful death—'

‘No, it'll be fine,' cried Declan, still furiously working to loosen one of the iron bars.

‘People will have seen the fire,' said Colm eagerly, ‘and they'll be coming out here.'

‘It'll be too late. You aren't going to get me out. But there's one thing you can do – and this is a request from a dying man . . .'

‘What—?'

‘Absolve my soul from all its sins.'

They stared at him, not understanding.

‘No,' said Colm. ‘You need a priest, and we'll never get one out here in time.'

‘There's another way – it might be an empty superstition, but it's one of the oldest beliefs known.' Sheehan was standing as close to the window as he could; his hair was drenched with sweat and his eyes were violently bloodshot. ‘And it might save me from damnation—'

Without thinking, Declan said, ‘Then you did do it? The stories are true about you beating the devil.'

‘Let the legend live,' said Sheehan, and incredibly a smile twisted his face so that for a moment they both saw the urbane, slightly mocking man they had met hours earlier. ‘And if it's proof you want . . .' He thrust a hand through the bars, seeming hardly to notice that the fierce heat from the iron burned his fingers. ‘Take what's left.'

‘What . . . ?' Declan began, then saw it was the black King from the chess set.

‘Take it and do what I'm asking,' said Sheehan urgently. ‘I daren't die with my sins all still with me. I
daren't.
Don't you know the devil never keeps his side of a bargain?'

Declan hesitated, and it was Colm who nodded and reached out a hand to take the carved figure. Declan thought he shuddered as his fingers closed over it.

Sheehan was doubling over, gasping and moaning. Mingled with the sweat pouring down his face were drops of thick yellow fluid. Exactly, thought Declan with horror, like when you bake an apple in the oven and the skin starts to split and the juices leak out. Then with what was clearly an immense effort, Sheehan said, ‘The old ritual – the ritual performed before Christianity even began. The ritual that's in the Old Testament – you've had the monks' teaching, you must know it. The Hebrew ritual of the scapegoat?'

‘Yes – Aaron confessed all the sins of the Children of Israel over the head of a live goat,' said Declan. ‘Then they sent the goat into the wilderness to die, believing it bore all their sins.'

‘It's in Leviticus as well,' said Sheehan. ‘The sins of one are transferred to another. Do that for me now. Take on the burden of my sins.'

‘But – how?'

‘They'd do it with bread and wine,' said Sheehan. ‘But if the stories are right, any piece of food and drop of liquid will serve.'

Declan said, ‘I have an apple. And a wedge of soda bread.'

‘Apples have juice. And bread is the staff of life. Do it, Declan.'

‘Me?'

‘Colm's already half tainted with murder. The sin-eater has to be as innocent as possible. But oh God, hurry,' said Sheehan. ‘I'll be beyond sanity very soon.'

‘Declan, you can't,' said Colm in an urgent whisper. ‘This is wrong.'

‘But he's going to die. He's facing screaming agony. He
knows
he is. So if this makes him feel better, it can't be so wrong. And he's a priest, or he was once. Wouldn't that mean he knows what he's talking about?'

‘Wouldn't the devil quote Scriptures for his own ends?' retorted Colm. ‘Declan, this isn't a Catholic ritual – it might not even be Christian. And supposing it – um – works? You don't know what his sins are. You don't know what you'd be taking on your soul.'

‘I'll confess tomorrow. My sins and his.'

‘Do it!' screamed Sheehan. ‘At least let me know I won't die in mortal sin! Oh God, I'm burning! My stomach . . . My guts are on fire . . .'

In a strained, helpless voice, Declan said, ‘Tell me what to do.'

In the end it was simple enough.

Declan and Colm managed to slice a small piece of the apple, and to crumble the soda bread which they passed through the bars. Sheehan grabbed the fragments of food and in a struggling, dried-out voice, sobbed out his sins. He spoke half in English, half in Latin, but his words were so blurred with agony and terror that the boys could not hear many of them.

Then Sheehan began to chant the Act of Contrition.

‘
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, istis Sanctis et omnibus Sanctis et tibi frater, quia peccavi in cogitatione, in locutione, in opere, in pollutione mentis et corporis. Ideo precor te, ora pro me
.'

The familiar Latin fell raggedly on the fire-streaked darkness, and for a moment it almost seemed as if the shrieking wind seized the words and tore them mockingly to shreds.

‘The food,' gasped Sheehan. ‘Take it from me. The sins will go from me with it.'

Declan hesitated, but when Sheehan thrust the already-discolouring sliver of apple and the drying bread back through the bars, he took them, although he was uneasily aware of the dark echoes of the Mass, and he knew Colm was, too. The iron staves were so intensely hot by this time that he burned his hand, and cried out from the pain. But it would be a pinprick compared to what Nicholas Sheehan was already suffering.

‘Eat!' cried Sheehan. ‘You must eat it!' and Declan, shivering despite the glowing heat from the tower, nodded and crammed the food into his mouth. He gagged a couple of times and for a dreadful moment thought he would actually be sick, but he managed to swallow most of it. Then he half fell against the cliff face, gasping.

Colm said urgently, ‘We have to go back now.'

‘We can't leave him.'