The Sin Eater(95)

But they threw him away from them, sending him sprawling on the wet ground, and turned back to Colm. Through the panic and fear, Declan had time to think that in the light of the flaring torches, these people bore no resemblance to the villagers he had known. He looked about him, frantically trying to see a way of saving Colm.

But it was already too late. The villagers of Kilglenn, filled with bloodlust, were holding down Colm’s arms and legs. The glowing branding irons – two of them – were raised into the night sky. Then they were brought down on to Colm’s face.





TWENTY-SEVEN


For Declan the worst part was not Colm screaming in agony; it was the dreadful stench of burning flesh – the stench they had both smelled on this hillside not very long ago.

A thin rain had started to fall, cooling the irons, and as the glow of their heat faded, the hatred and malevolence of the villagers seemed to fade. They stepped back from Colm, seeming unsure of themselves – almost seeming unaware of where they were. Some of the women started crying. In twos and threes, avoiding each others’ eyes, they made their way back down the cliff path.

Somehow Declan got Colm as far as the shack, partly carrying and partly dragging him. Colm was moaning and struggling, but once inside the cottage he seemed to become calmer. Declan laid him on the battered sofa, and faced, with horror and dismay, the task of tending to Colm’s burns. The branding irons had burned away almost the whole of one side of his face, searing into his cheekbone all down to the jaw.

‘Eyes both intact though,’ said Colm, in a thready voice. ‘At least I’ll see Death when he approaches.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ said Declan angrily.

‘Declan, they’ve burned half my face off! Why would I want to live?’

‘It’s not so very bad,’ said Declan. He was not sure how burns should be treated, but he tore strips from his shirt and soaked them in the cold rain, then laid them over the burned flesh. But Colm was still twisting and turning as if trying to escape the pain and Declan was dreadfully aware that Colm’s hands were icily cold. Could you actually die from the shock and pain of a bad burn? Please don’t let him die, he thought, and stood up with decision. ‘I’m going to get help from the village.’

‘No one will come.’

‘My mother would. My father, too.’ But even as he said it, Declan was wondering if he could ask it of them. Neither of his parents had been among the torchlit group, but they would not want to be seen by the villagers as aiding a killer. And how would they feel towards Declan himself, after he had run away without warning, leaving only a note?

In miserable indecision, he built up a fire in the shack’s little hearth, and drew a rug over Colm. In one of the cupboards he found half a bottle of whiskey, which he handed to Colm hoping it might dull the pain. Colm drank most of it, then relapsed into an uneasy sleep, and Declan sat on, wanting to get help, knowing there was no help to be had.

Shortly after midnight Colm seemed to rouse, and Declan sat up.

‘You’re feeling better?’ he said, but he could already see that Colm was much worse. His eyes were wild and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. The unmarked side of his face was taking on a waxen tinge and there was a pinched blue look to his lips. I can’t lose him, thought Declan, in anguish. Only I don’t know what to do.

In a weak voice, Colm said, ‘What were we saying about death, Declan?’

‘You’re not dying,’ said Declan again.

‘I am. And here’s the thing, Declan, I’m dying with all those sins on my soul. Mine and Romilly’s, and Nicholas Sheehan’s . . .’ He struggled into a semi-upright position and reached for Declan’s hands. The fingers, closing around Declan’s, were cold, but beneath the surface the bones seemed to be on fire. ‘Let’s remember Romilly aborted a child and Sheehan reneged on his vows,’ said Colm. ‘And let’s remember that I murdered five people in London . . .’

Declan said, ‘Will I get a priest?’ and Colm gave a half-laugh that turned into a scraping cough.

‘Father O’Brian? Oh sure, he’d break his neck to come all the way up here for a sinner like me.’

‘He would come,’ said Declan.

‘Declan, by the time you get to his house and bring him back out here, it’ll be too late. Oh God, it’s burning into my bones . . .’ He broke off, struggling against the pain. Then he said, in a quieter voice, ‘I don’t want to die like this – I don’t want to die at all. Life’s bloody unfair, isn’t it?’

‘You’ll get through it,’ said Declan valiantly.

‘But in case not . . . Declan, will you do one last thing for me?’

‘What?’ But a cold horror was creeping over Declan, because he already knew what Colm wanted.

‘You did it twice before. Once for the priest. Then for Romilly. Do it for me, now. The ritual – the sin-eating ritual.’

Declan stared at him, his mind in tumult. After what felt like a very long time, he said, ‘I can’t.’

‘Why can’t you? You did it for those others. Aren’t I your oldest friend?’

It would be impossible to say, ‘Yes, but you’re a murderer five times over.’ Instead Declan said, again, ‘I can’t.’