Read Online A Journal of Sin by Darryl Donaghue - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Darryl Donaghue
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She’d brought him along to help, but if his stomach wasn’t up to the task, she’d rather he kept his distance.
‘Sorry. I’ve never seen anything like this. I didn’t think - ’
‘It’s okay.’
Neither had she. Puncture wounds to the left stomach area. Lacerations to the penis and testicles. Seeing his body twisted her stomach in knots. These savage injuries were the product of a disturbed mind. She imagined what the reaction would be at the nick. A case like this would have everybody wanting to help. A good man murdered in such abhorrent fashion would produce the best in her work colleagues, long hours making sure everything was covered, not to mention the camaraderie that came with it. She had none of those things. She was alone. She’d expected him back by now; most missing people came back within twenty-four hours. Most were back by the time she’d filled in the MisPer log – why not this one, dammit. Why did this one have to die out here, she thought. What can I do on my own?
She paced, scared she was in too deep, that she was letting everyone down: the townsfolk, who would expect her to keep them safe, and Father Michael, who deserved justice. She wished she could tell them the truth. I’ve got little over two years in; I don’t know that much, but I’m learning all the time. No one wanted to hear that. They looked to her to answer all their questions and they’d look to her to find Father Michael’s killer. She wanted to run, but she was here now and he was there, looking up at her.
She needed to finish the job. She changed her gloves, then leant forward over his chest as her knees sank into the mud. The putrid smell wafted up her nose. She gripped the side of his arm and rolled him towards her, checking for wounds to the back. His wrists and arms were bound with tie wraps. The cassock was intact, but she couldn’t really know if there were any wounds without removing it, and doing so out here would cover more of the body in mud, leaving the forensics team with little hope of recovering anything. With the lack of light and the weight of the body, she could do little else tonight. She covered it with the dust sheet, knowing she’d have to move it soon. She’d planned on asking Sam to help, although his reaction suggested it wasn’t something he’d agree to or be capable of carrying out.
Tonight, he wanted to go out. John normally drank at home, with the TV clicker and his thoughts for company, shunning the rest of the townsfolk whilst they cavorted with their friends and families. A chill wind blew through the town. It was quiet out, not that he’d had many other evenings out in Sunbury to compare it to. The town’s mood had changed since Sarah’s announcement; the chipper post-storm attitude dulled to a heavy, melancholic temper. Yesterday morning, he’d seen people joyfully hugging and kissing each other after two weeks’ isolation. Today, they did the same in condolence, saying things like ‘at least we’ve got each other’ and ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon. I just know it.’ There were no hugs or kisses of either kind for him.
He wrapped a red-chequered scarf around his neck and put on his battered brown sport coat. It was all the rage when he had bought it, but now it mostly sat indoors gathering dust along with its owner. It was made for nights out, and nights out didn’t come around too often anymore. He wore the same dark jeans he’d worn all week, hand-washed once after the search of St Peters. They were comfortable and he reasoned most people wouldn’t notice he’d worn them two days running. And if he didn’t mind, and they didn’t notice, there wasn’t any real problem.
Three other people remained in the Horse and Duck; all sitting in the booths along the far wall, underneath two framed paintings of animals grazing in the fields. The bottle slid down his hand. The landlord poured him a tall glass of tap water. Landlords tended to know when the punters
‘Sorry. I’ve never seen anything like this. I didn’t think - ’
‘It’s okay.’
Neither had she. Puncture wounds to the left stomach area. Lacerations to the penis and testicles. Seeing his body twisted her stomach in knots. These savage injuries were the product of a disturbed mind. She imagined what the reaction would be at the nick. A case like this would have everybody wanting to help. A good man murdered in such abhorrent fashion would produce the best in her work colleagues, long hours making sure everything was covered, not to mention the camaraderie that came with it. She had none of those things. She was alone. She’d expected him back by now; most missing people came back within twenty-four hours. Most were back by the time she’d filled in the MisPer log – why not this one, dammit. Why did this one have to die out here, she thought. What can I do on my own?
She paced, scared she was in too deep, that she was letting everyone down: the townsfolk, who would expect her to keep them safe, and Father Michael, who deserved justice. She wished she could tell them the truth. I’ve got little over two years in; I don’t know that much, but I’m learning all the time. No one wanted to hear that. They looked to her to answer all their questions and they’d look to her to find Father Michael’s killer. She wanted to run, but she was here now and he was there, looking up at her.
She needed to finish the job. She changed her gloves, then leant forward over his chest as her knees sank into the mud. The putrid smell wafted up her nose. She gripped the side of his arm and rolled him towards her, checking for wounds to the back. His wrists and arms were bound with tie wraps. The cassock was intact, but she couldn’t really know if there were any wounds without removing it, and doing so out here would cover more of the body in mud, leaving the forensics team with little hope of recovering anything. With the lack of light and the weight of the body, she could do little else tonight. She covered it with the dust sheet, knowing she’d have to move it soon. She’d planned on asking Sam to help, although his reaction suggested it wasn’t something he’d agree to or be capable of carrying out.
Tonight, he wanted to go out. John normally drank at home, with the TV clicker and his thoughts for company, shunning the rest of the townsfolk whilst they cavorted with their friends and families. A chill wind blew through the town. It was quiet out, not that he’d had many other evenings out in Sunbury to compare it to. The town’s mood had changed since Sarah’s announcement; the chipper post-storm attitude dulled to a heavy, melancholic temper. Yesterday morning, he’d seen people joyfully hugging and kissing each other after two weeks’ isolation. Today, they did the same in condolence, saying things like ‘at least we’ve got each other’ and ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon. I just know it.’ There were no hugs or kisses of either kind for him.
He wrapped a red-chequered scarf around his neck and put on his battered brown sport coat. It was all the rage when he had bought it, but now it mostly sat indoors gathering dust along with its owner. It was made for nights out, and nights out didn’t come around too often anymore. He wore the same dark jeans he’d worn all week, hand-washed once after the search of St Peters. They were comfortable and he reasoned most people wouldn’t notice he’d worn them two days running. And if he didn’t mind, and they didn’t notice, there wasn’t any real problem.
Three other people remained in the Horse and Duck; all sitting in the booths along the far wall, underneath two framed paintings of animals grazing in the fields. The bottle slid down his hand. The landlord poured him a tall glass of tap water. Landlords tended to know when the punters
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