My Neighbour, Mr. Bates

by Monica Marier

Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.

Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”

Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.

Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.

But what if I’m right? He asked himself.

His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.

Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.

Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.

Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.

“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”

At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.

“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.

Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.

“I’ve been watching you!”

“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.

“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”

“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”

“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”

“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”

“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”

“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.

“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”

Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.

“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.

Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”

Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.

“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.

“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”

“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.

“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.

“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”

“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.

“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.

“I need your help,” said Andrew.

Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.

“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”

“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.

“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.

“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”

Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”

“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.

“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”

The Prodigal's Foole Bloghop

Monica Marier

Those of you who know me, know that I shy away from book reviews. I only post reviews about books I absolutely adore, usually with no promises beforehand.

When I’m approached by a colleague who wants me to review their book I go into small agonies. It’s like that terrifying moment when an acquaintance says, “Want to see pictures of my newborn baby?” Before the reveal, I’m already crafting non-specific banal compliments to trot out in case Junior turns out to be a Halloween mask with legs. How can I tell an adoring parent that their baby looks like “JoJo the Dogfaced boy?” It’s much the same way with authors and their work. It’s their baby, so I panic —afraid to say mean things about their precious bundle of prose!

I had NO such reservations, however, when RB Wood asked me to review his new book “The Prodigal's Foole,” and host it on my blog. I’ve done work with RB before, specifically for his Word Count Podcast, so I was confident that RB would knock my socks off.

He did.

So here for you today, with a clear conscience and a load of fired-up excitement, I present a review and interview for the launch of...

The Prodigal's Foole

Symon Bryson is part of a rag-tag band of plucky misfits trained by the Catholic Church to fight demons. Then it all goes to Hell (literally). Ten years later, Symon is forced to regroup with his more sober and more mature gang to save their mentor and save the world —kind of a High school reunion from the 8th circle.

Symon is our guide through the book as a Peter Venkman-meets-Scott-Pilgrim mystic, full of giggle-worthy observations and dry wit. RB peoples this book with well-developed characters including interesting women (a MUST for me), and heart-winning mentors. It’s all lovingly depicted in a Cambridge Massachusetts so vivid that I want to go visit. RB also doesn’t shy away from the gross, gritty and the horror elements which were truly terrifying. Not for the faint of heart! The Catholic Church is neither over-praised nor vilified, but handled in a direct, realistic manner that makes this story all the more absorbing and a very rewarding read.

Highly recommended to all enjoy Urban Fantasy, Horror, and a good laugh (I’m looking at you, Dresden File Fans!)

So without further ado, here is RB Wood!

R.B. Wood is a technology consultant and a writer of Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction and quite frankly anything else that strikes his fancy. His first novel, The Prodigal's Foole is now available fo Kindle at Amazon.com. Mr. Wood is currently working on the second book of his Arcana Chronicles series and is host of The Word Count podcast.
R. B. currently lives in Boston with his partner, Tina, his dog Jack, three cats and various other critters that visit from time to time.
You can find his blog, R.B. Wood, Tales of an Indie Writer, HERE

ME: First of all, I have to admit that I was on tenterhooks the moment I realized that your book’s plot centered around the Catholic Church. I’m a practicing Catholic myself and I’ve been burned before by people like Dan Brown and a few others with their books about Catholics. It was a huge relief that you created an honest cast of characters with real flaws and foibles without tearing the Church to ribbons in the process. Any reasons you chose to go with Catholicism and how did you research the subject-matter?

RBW: I figured that Magic had been in the world for a while and was very rare. Who would've wanted to control that power? Well, the Church would have had the resources and the power to do just that. I'm focusing on the Catholic Church, specifically because of their influence for so many hundreds of years. However, there are far older religions that will be having their say as well. Stay tuned. :-)

ME: Your book is also centered around the Cambridge/Boston. I love when authors bring their own backyards into their work.

RBW: The Boston area is one of Thirteen magical hot-spots in the world I've created. Since I live here, research makes it easy. The city is (By US standards) an 'old' city. There is a history of Magic in the area (Salem Witch trials, anyone?). Besides, New York, Chicago and L.A. usually get the crazies. About time for some insanity in Boston.

ME: (You forgot D.C. Whole crap-ton of crazy here in D.C.) Some pretty freaky demonic weirdness in this book. How much was research and how much was pure RB-flair?

RBW: A lot research, then imagination. The Skratta in the book, for example, is the mythological Icelandic hobgoblin and my own imagination.

ME: Speaking of weirdness, I can tell you’re no stranger to the terrifying and bizarre. The images you made my imagination conjure were pretty pants-wettingly frightening in some places.

RBW: Awesome quote…"pants-wettingly frightening." I must use that somewhere. Thank you for the compliment. The world Symon was brought into was 'cool' from his perspective as a youngster. Far from cool, there is some scary sh*t out there in the Shadow-world. I've only shown a very small portion that awaits my poor hero…and that's all you get for now.

ME: ("Poor" is right. You really do like to beat the snot out of Symon. It's probably why I like him so much.)The priests I know have never shied around the subject of mysticism, exorcism and the existence of demons. To the church both are real occurrences in our world. What’s your opinion on that?

RBW: I certainly believe that there are things we cannot explain away easily. Open mind is key. I respect what the Church believes, but I don't necessarily believe in their take on mysticism. I still haven't forgiven them for that whole 'threatening to torture Galileo for being right,' thing.

ME: Since you’re a believer, does it get scary writing about demons and Hell at times? Depressing?

RBW: Depressing, no. I love constructing a story and researching the elements and the details. Scary? Nothing like a good scare to keep you honest! :-)

ME: True that. The characters in your book hint that the turmoil we've been seeing in the world in the last decade(wars, disasters, economic collapse) are a sign of bigger badder things evolving. I've actually heard this from a lot of people from all faiths—Heck I had a Jehovah's Witness at my door yesterday telling me the same thing. What are your thoughts?

RBW: My thoughts are this: Stay tuned, but you're on track.

ME: Okay, fair enough. Final question. Say the world IS all going to Hell in a Honda and you decide to spread the word a la Rorschach in "Watchmen." What does your cardboard sign say?

RBW: "Watch. Listen. Pay attention and ask questions. Otherwise, you might be a casualty."

ME: Thanks again for your time and congratulations on writing and publishing such an awesome book, RB Wood. I look forward to the next installment and good luck on your inevitable success. I leave you all now with my favorite quote from "The Prodigal's Foole" by RB Wood.

“One of Charles’ many repeating themes he preached was that evil was everywhere. I’ve seen it firsthand. It permeates spaces and individuals and things on levels that most ordinary people could never comprehend. Many of the old stories, myths, legends, and yes, even the scariest portions of the Old Testament, are based on truth. According to Charles, only those of us born with magic in our souls can protect the world from falling permanently into the abyss.”

You can purchase The Prodigal's Foole on Kindle HERE

Jeremy Hunted 5: Sanguine

This story is fast becoming a serial! Help! I can't stop it!
Anyway, this is part 5 and the other 4 are here.

http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html
Part 2: The Lodger
Part 3: Breakfast Invite
Part 4: Deal with the Devil

Andrew awoke at the sound of a loud shout. It sounded more frustrated than angry or upset. It was followed by a loud crash and series of decidedly modern curse words. On a normal day Andrew would have slept through all this, but he had been rather jumpy since yesterday due to Jeremy. Andrew had encountered many hungry vampires before and knew what they were capable of. Jeremy had never caused Andrew any concern because he’d kicked the habit 40 years ago. Now that Jeremy had fallen off the wagon, altruistic motives aside, Andrew had been in a constant state of anxiety. For the past 18 hours, he’d been jumping at shadows and starting at small noises. To top it off, a newly-acquired neck-brace was impairing his ability to keep a proper watch on his surroundings.

So far Jeremy had demonstrated an impressive show of willpower after a patchy start. Granted he had a tendency to snarl if you startled him and he kept watching Andrew like he was a gazelle on the veldt; but he had saved Frank’s life, and had ridden in the ambulance with him and Andrew. After Andrew had been given his neck brace and Jeremy had given the hospital staff Frank’s passport and ID, the vampire had stomped back into the house and holed himself up in the kitchen. Andrew was too nervous to hang about and so had beaten a strategic retreat to his room. For the rest of the afternoon, he’d sat on his bed with his back pressed hard against the wall while he read back issues of The Beano. He could hardly concentrate on the antics of Dennis the Menace as he heard the loud crashes coming from downstairs and his eyes kept flitting between his comic, the door and the loaded gun next to him.

After a few hours the crashes died down and Andrew, gun in hand, decided to brave the unknown. He found a fantastic mess in the dining room. Every mug in the house was piled on the table in a state of ceramic carnage. Mugs were chipped, cracked, missing handles and several sported large gaps where chunks had been bitten out of the rim. The lucky mugs had simply been reduced to brightly-coloured chalk. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The counters and floors were littered with pots and pans. They were warped out of shape especially the handles, which were all sporting deep handprints. The kettle hadn’t survived. Amidst the cookware were dozens of boxes. Andrew hadn’t expected this though. He’d figured that the boxes and pans would be for sausages or tinned ham or something similarly meaty. He hadn’t expected 8 boxes of PG Tips to be torn open and ravaged. Nor had he foreseen the empty wrappers from twenty packages of McVities digestive biscuits.

He heard the noise of the telly in the sitting room and after cautiously poking his head in, saw Jeremy watching Tomorrow’s World. Andrew gasped. If Jeremy was actually watching the device he’d shunned as the “seizure box,” something was seriously wrong. Andrew took it as an evil portent and ran full tilt back to his room. He’d spent a very fitful night in which his few minutes of sleep were haunted by visions of predatory jaws attacking his throat in a red-tinged gloom. The last night he’d spent like that, he’d been ten years old. Jeremy was the one to help him conquer that walking nightmare. Now Jeremy was the nightmare.

As Andrew awoke in the dim grey light, he jumped to the mirror and examined his body for bites. Nope, he was clean. The neck brace was getting in the way, so Andrew ripped it off and chucked it in the corner. His neck wasn’t feeling much better, but he could turn his head now —besides, he’d dealt with much worse before. The filthy language was still coming from Jeremy’s room and Andrew broke into a cold sweat. Mopping his brow, he took the gun out from under his pillow and methodically scooted the dresser away from the door where it was acting as barricade. With utmost caution, Andrew inched through the door and across the carpeted hall to the master bedroom.

“Jer?” he asked in a dry timid voice.
“Yeah, what,” came the snappish answer. Andrew flinched. It still didn’t sound like Jeremy. Jeremy’s voice had always been melodious and soft, like someone who worked with very small children. This new voice was deep and commanding and (it seemed to Andrew) very tetchy.
“Everything alright in there? Can I come in?” Andrew asked.
“You can if you promise not to do anything bone-headed with that gun,” was the short reply.

Andrew took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then he reached for the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Looking more closely at it, Andrew saw that the knob had been squished into a lump of compressed brass. He then noticed the door was ajar and (after putting the Gun down his jeans) he nudged it open with his trainer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you silly man,” grumbled Jeremy.

Andrew breathed again. That sounded more like the real Jeremy. Walking into the room, however, Andrew abruptly changed his mind. Jeremy looked terrifying. He was clad only in his bathrobe, and its seams were in danger of popping. The reason was obvious; Jeremy’s usually frail frame was now covered in taught muscles and sinew. His skin was flushed and sweating, like he’d been jogging. He wasn’t huge like Arnie, or some other body-builder, but he looked athletic, strong… lethal. His snowy hair was still jet black and shiny, his face still focused and predatory. The vampire’s head swiveled towards him with uncanny swiftness. Dark predatory eyes considered the frightened Andrew.

“Still pretty scary, eh?” he asked Andrew, his sharp face softening a little.
Andrew knew that lying was pretty pointless. He only managed a nod.
“Are the eyes better at least?”
Andrew shrugged. “They don’t look quite so… evil,” he admitted. “You just look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I could say the same for you,” said Jeremy. The words were kindly, but in his strong forceful voice, their warmth was lost.
“I…” Andrew began but he abandoned the topic, “…heard swearing and shouting,” he finished, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh,” said Jeremy absently. He pointed to his dresser which was now a pile of splinters. “I keep smashing things,” he grumbled. “Controlling my strength was always difficult in the old days, but after forty years I’m out of practice... That and my clothes don’t fit now.”
Andrew noticed the pile of shredded cloth next to the mutilated dresser.
“You do look a little… bigger,” said Andrew carefully. “Want to borrow some of my clothes for now?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, the way I’m buggering up everything, they’ll probably come back as dust rags.”

Jeremy’s powerful shoulders hunched as he sighed, looking thoroughly embarrassed. It gave Andrew enough courage to approach him. He strode up to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy’s body tensed when the hammy hand touched his body and he dove out of its reach.

“Sorry, just a reflex,” Jeremy said, trying to collect himself.
“No problem.” Andrew had been reaching for his gun, but he played it off like he was only trying to scratch his bum. He didn’t want to hurt Jeremy’s feelings. “How long are you going to be like this?”
“I dunno. A week or two perhaps,” answered Jeremy. “I tried to calm myself down with some tea yesterday. You probably saw how well that went.”
“Did you eventually get a cuppa?” asked Andrew.
“I drank 48 cups,” said Jeremy. “When we ran out of sugar I used golden syrup...and then jam. I also ate all the biscuits, including your secret stash of Penguins. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Andrew with a smile. “Not the worst that could happen, considering. Well, we’ll have to get you some more clothes in the meantime.”
“I suppose it was time to get new clothes anyway,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I’ll say. The fact that you held on to those Victorian togs for so long is astounding.”
“They weren’t Victorian!” said Jeremy defensively.
“Oh c’mon? Where else would you have gotten braces and a frilly shirt?”
“The sixties.”
“’kay . Y’got me there,” said Andrew finally relaxing a little. “I’ll get you some of my old shirts, jeans, socks, underpants...”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “Never mind about the knickers though. I’ll manage.”
“Oh grow up— they’re clean!” said Andrew.
“Only because I do your laundry. I’ve seen what you do to them first,” said Jeremy, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll manage without. At least enough to go to Marks & Spencer and get some more… and a new kettle. I get the feeling I’ll be wanting a LOT more tea.”

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in part 1.  For those of you just jumping in, the only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a vampire and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.

Frances “Frank” Timothy Tercero climbed shakily out of the black taxi and stood in front of 23 Girton Rd NW11 8AG. The cab had driven past it three times while they had looked for the house number, and after some arguing and calculations using the other houses, they eventually realized that it must have been here. Frank gripped his suitcases and gulped at the towering hedges that were trimmed to a tidy and forbidding 10 feet. A small “Rooms To Let” sign was stuck in it, drowning in tiny green leaves. Upon inspection, Frank found a low metal gate peeking out from a portal cut in the privet wall. It opened silently and he peered into the gloom. A large ash tree caressed the red-tile roof of a handsome half-timber house and blocked the few rays of sunlight that were brave enough to climb over the hedge. Sure enough a pair of brass numbers glinted in the dim green light. This was number 23.

“Crap,” he muttered. Steeling his courage, and taking a deep breath, Frank marched resolutely up the walk towards the glassed in boot room. He marveled further at the gloomy front yard. Instead of a lawn there was a sea of ground ivy that strayed onto the flagstone walkway and caught at his trouser legs. A sun catcher made of lead and stained yellow glass twirled idly in an unfelt breeze. Frank wondered what on earth the sun catcher was meant to catch, seeing as there wasn’t a speck of light. He glanced up at the windows and smiled at the old-fashioned diamond shapes of the leaded panes.

“Just like something out of Shakespeare’s time,” he said to himself with a grin. Frank had very little imagination, but he had a highly developed romantic mind. He’d never read a lot of novels as a kid or watched cartoons. He’d preferred to read books about history and famous people of centuries past. While his generation was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and “Thunder Cats”, he was pouring over books about the Roman Empire and the Ancient Greece. He’d read about the lives of Lincoln, Jefferson, Bonaparte, Charlemagne and Caesar.

And he read about England. It was a fascinating country to him —it was like all the world’s history had been crammed into an island the size of Louisiana.  All his life he’d wanted to visit it. And now that Father Brennan was making him take an enforced sabbatical from Seminary it seemed a good place to find himself. He winced at the memory of that meeting, and with a heavy heart, rang the doorbell.

He waited a while, and no one came. He decided he must not have pushed the button hard enough and tried again, pushing firmly on the button. This time the brittle rubber button became stuck to his thumb and came away from the post, pulling the plastic casing with it. Some wires that looked thoroughly dead and rotten trailed back to the doorpost. Uncertain what to do next, Frank looked around to see if he could spot anyone at the windows, but all he could see were heavy curtains.

Leaning on the glass door it gave way immediately and he wandered into the boot room, twiddling his fingers in anxiety. He approached the heavy white door featuring a brass knocker shaped like the head of Hermes. Frank knocked firmly and the sound bounced off the glass panes. His eyelids suddenly drooped as he unleashed a head-splitting yawn. Checking his cellphone, he noted that back in Baltimore it was 6am, while over here, it was around lunchtime.

He was shaken out of his tiredness when he heard hissing whispers on the other side of the door. It sounded like two people having a heated argument they didn’t want overheard. With a sudden hiss of “shut-it!” the door popped open and two men stood grinning on the threshold. Both of their grins seemed rather forced.

Frank pushed up his spectacles to get a better look at them. They both looked like men in their mid-thirties but their similarities ended there. One looked like a quiet gentleman with eccentric taste in clothing; he wore an overlarge shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers that were held up by very old-fashioned two-button suspenders. He was pale and very thin, almost sickly looking, like some of the chemo patients Frank had worked with — except for a mop of snowy shoulder-length hair. His grin revealed very white teeth with long canines. Frank wasn’t normally put off by these. He was a quarter Italian and all his Mediterranean cousins sported long canines. But in this pale man’s face they were a little eerie.

The other man was his complete antithesis. While the former looked like a slight breeze would knock him over, this one looked like he could punch through a commercial bus. He was tall, muscular and covered in tattoos and piercings. Unlike his friend, he was more moderately dressed in black jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising the band, “Zombie Cromwell” His head was shaved but his face sported a jet-black goatee broken here and there by scar tissue. His grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.

The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.

“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.

“Oh, right!” spluttered Frank in embarrassment. “I’m Frank Tercero, we spoke on the phone.” He extended a hand in greeting, and pale man shook it with a firmer grip than Frank would have supposed.

“Frank, right! I’m Jeremy Bates and this is my friend, Andrew Fletcher. Come on in and we’ll get you sorted. Did you have a good flight?”

Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval.

“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”

“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.

“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity.

“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”

“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”

“Oh, that explains why you don’t have your little collar-thing on,” said Andrew coming up behind them. He was carrying the two heavy suitcases like they were lunchboxes and when he threw them on the bed there was an ominous creak from the springs. Frank was about to explain that pre-candidate seminarians who did wear Roman collars didn’t wear them on sabbatical, when Jeremy’s head whipped around and gave Andrew a pointed look. He charged into the hall dragging Andrew’s bulk with him.

“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.

Frank looked at the door in bewilderment and immediately heard hushed arguing again, like he’d heard on the landing, only this time he could hear every word.

“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.

“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.

“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.

“So am I!”

“Well, he’s a paying guest, so he trumps you on that much.”

“You never asked me to pay!”

“I would never think of asking you to pay, but I think you’d have the common decency to show a little politeness now and then, especially for my tenants!”

“I was being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”

“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.

“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!”

“It’s my house!”

“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our secret!”

“SHHH!”

There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible.

Frank stared at the door non-plussed. He shoved the suitcases on the floor and kicking off his shoes climbed into the bed, fully dressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a gay love-nest by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”

He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely.