Read Online The Seventh Sacrament by David Hewson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Hewson
Ads: Link
usual as the warden sipped his coffee and picked at the pastry. He knew why, too. It was the man next door, wrapped up tight in his coat and hat and scarf, yet—and Gabrielli knew this was ridiculous—familiar somehow. There was also his eagerness to be in that confounded room. The visitor hadn’t even asked a single question, it now occurred to him, except: Is it still there?
It was almost as if he’d been here before, and that was another thought that Gabrielli found disturbing.
Reluctantly—a part of him was coming to hate that little room—he got up and, with all the speed a sixty-seven-year-old man could muster, crossed the passage and stood by the door to the familiar place. The too-bright lights of the passageway dazzled him. At first he fooled himself that the visitor was gone, without a word of thanks or so much as a departing footstep. There wasn’t a human sound from anywhere, save for his own laboured breathing, the gift of a lifetime’s addiction to strong cigarettes. All Pino Gabrielli could hear was the repetitive, mechanical roar of the traffic, a constant tide of sound so familiar and predictable he rarely noticed it, though today it seemed louder than ever, seemed to enter his head and rebound inside his rising imagination.
Then he stepped into the narrow, claustrophobic room, knowing as he did so that he entered a place that was wrong, out of kilter with the world he liked to inhabit.
He didn’t believe in Purgatory. Not really. But at that moment, with his heart beating a compound rhythm deep beneath his tight waistcoat, his throat dry with fear, Pino Gabrielli was aware that even a man like him, a former professor of architecture, well read, well travelled, with an open, inquisitive mind, sometimes knew very little at all.
The figure in black was busy in the pool of hard shadow at the far wall where Alessio Bramante’s T-shirt was kept. The item was no longer in its case but pinned to the old pale plaster by the intruder’s left hand. His right fist held some kind of grubby cloth, dripping with a dark viscous liquid. Gabrielli watched, unable to move, as the man stabbed at the boy’s shirt four times, enlarging each old stain with a new one that was bright and shiny with fresh blood. Finally he added an extra mark, a thick, sanguineous blotch on a previously unblemished star to the upper left.
One more message, the petrified warden thought, to add to four that had already gone unheard.
Perhaps Gabrielli uttered some noise. Perhaps it was simply his labored breathing. He became aware that his presence was known. The man placed the shirt back in its case with slow, ponderous care, and pushed the glass back into position, leaving gory, sticky marks on the surface. Then he dragged off his heavy woollen hat and turned round.
“You…” Gabrielli murmured, astonished by what he saw.
Pino Gabrielli closed his eyes, felt his bladder go weak, his mind go blank, ashamed that, in extremis, he found it impossible to pray.
WHEN HE RECOVERED the courage to look around him again, he was alone. Gabrielli stumbled to the nave and fell into a hard wooden pew there, trembling.
Sacro Cuore was dear to him. He knew the rules, the protocols that bound its governance, and that of any church in Rome. By rights he should have called the priest and members of the parochial council before anyone. Just as he had done before.
And still the messages kept coming, this time with the messenger.
Enough was enough. With a shaking hand, Pino Gabrielli withdrew his phone from his pocket, waited for his fingers to stop shaking, wondering whom to dial in such circumstances—112 for the Carabinieri? Or 113 for the police? There was no easy number for God. That was why men built churches in the first place.
He tried not to think about the face of the man he’d seen. Someone he had once known, almost to the point of friendship. Someone who now had cold black eyes and skin that had the dry,
It was almost as if he’d been here before, and that was another thought that Gabrielli found disturbing.
Reluctantly—a part of him was coming to hate that little room—he got up and, with all the speed a sixty-seven-year-old man could muster, crossed the passage and stood by the door to the familiar place. The too-bright lights of the passageway dazzled him. At first he fooled himself that the visitor was gone, without a word of thanks or so much as a departing footstep. There wasn’t a human sound from anywhere, save for his own laboured breathing, the gift of a lifetime’s addiction to strong cigarettes. All Pino Gabrielli could hear was the repetitive, mechanical roar of the traffic, a constant tide of sound so familiar and predictable he rarely noticed it, though today it seemed louder than ever, seemed to enter his head and rebound inside his rising imagination.
Then he stepped into the narrow, claustrophobic room, knowing as he did so that he entered a place that was wrong, out of kilter with the world he liked to inhabit.
He didn’t believe in Purgatory. Not really. But at that moment, with his heart beating a compound rhythm deep beneath his tight waistcoat, his throat dry with fear, Pino Gabrielli was aware that even a man like him, a former professor of architecture, well read, well travelled, with an open, inquisitive mind, sometimes knew very little at all.
The figure in black was busy in the pool of hard shadow at the far wall where Alessio Bramante’s T-shirt was kept. The item was no longer in its case but pinned to the old pale plaster by the intruder’s left hand. His right fist held some kind of grubby cloth, dripping with a dark viscous liquid. Gabrielli watched, unable to move, as the man stabbed at the boy’s shirt four times, enlarging each old stain with a new one that was bright and shiny with fresh blood. Finally he added an extra mark, a thick, sanguineous blotch on a previously unblemished star to the upper left.
One more message, the petrified warden thought, to add to four that had already gone unheard.
Perhaps Gabrielli uttered some noise. Perhaps it was simply his labored breathing. He became aware that his presence was known. The man placed the shirt back in its case with slow, ponderous care, and pushed the glass back into position, leaving gory, sticky marks on the surface. Then he dragged off his heavy woollen hat and turned round.
“You…” Gabrielli murmured, astonished by what he saw.
Pino Gabrielli closed his eyes, felt his bladder go weak, his mind go blank, ashamed that, in extremis, he found it impossible to pray.
WHEN HE RECOVERED the courage to look around him again, he was alone. Gabrielli stumbled to the nave and fell into a hard wooden pew there, trembling.
Sacro Cuore was dear to him. He knew the rules, the protocols that bound its governance, and that of any church in Rome. By rights he should have called the priest and members of the parochial council before anyone. Just as he had done before.
And still the messages kept coming, this time with the messenger.
Enough was enough. With a shaking hand, Pino Gabrielli withdrew his phone from his pocket, waited for his fingers to stop shaking, wondering whom to dial in such circumstances—112 for the Carabinieri? Or 113 for the police? There was no easy number for God. That was why men built churches in the first place.
He tried not to think about the face of the man he’d seen. Someone he had once known, almost to the point of friendship. Someone who now had cold black eyes and skin that had the dry,
Similar Books
