The Devil Inside Read online

  An air, sea and land search had been conducted for weeks, without a skerrick of success. The sound of the police helicopter scouring the area from above had become the soundtrack to their lives, each day bringing new hope that was, with each blanket of evening darkness, dashed.

  The boy had disappeared without a trace. As expected, the investigation had delved deep into the family life and connections of J.D. and his wife, probing every phone call and text message they shared, examining every person J.D. had arrested and every acquaintance he and his wife had been in contact with. In the end, it had turned up nothing, and the process itself had been a violation from which the grieving couple never fully recovered. Still together but apart, they remained living in the same house, but as J.D. had once confided in Charlotte in a rare moment of vulnerability over a post-shift beer one evening, his marriage was now a farce, he and his wife grasping onto the hope that one day their son would return. And it was the fear of that happening, of their Isaac rising from the ashes and stumbling home only to find them gone, that was the glue that held them together, however tenuously.

  In the years since the disappearance, a new Lego model would appear on J.D.’s desk around the time of Isaac’s birthday.

  Charlotte was unable to even begin to imagine the ingrained pain that J.D. lived with every single day, pain so deep he couldn’t even bear to have a photo of his boy on his desk. She knew that pain must be echoed again and again in a job like theirs, yet he rarely let it show. How could she possibly complain? Her diagnosis and treatment were nothing in comparison – she was alive with a reasonable prospect of survival in front of her. She would never reveal it to his face, but J.D. was her inspiration, and had been for years.

  She unwrapped a Fantale and slipped the bite-sized chocolate caramel cube into her mouth, then spread the yellow-and-blue wrapper out on the tiny bit of space on her otherwise cluttered desk. ‘All right, you geniuses,’ she said, sucking loudly on the lolly. ‘Let’s see how good you are.’ She looked around the office; even Dash was out of his chair and standing in his doorway, chest puffed out like a rooster. Boys will be boys.

  ‘Okay. What movie am I? Released to critical acclaim in 1995, this complex crime whodunnit featured one of the great final-scene plot twists in modern cinema history. With an all-star cast led by Kevin Spacey as unlikely mastermind Roger “Verbal” Kint—’

  ‘The Usual Suspects!’ J.D. yelled, rising out of his chair, arms held aloft in victory. ‘One of my absolute favourites.’

  ‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist,’ Charlotte quoted, smiling as she tossed the screwed-up wrapper into the empty bin at her feet. ‘Never was a truer word said.’

  Charlotte knew the devil existed – she had seen his work firsthand, experienced the dread it had delivered. Now she just had to identify and unmask him for the rest of the world to see.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’m sorry to say it’s been three months since my last confession, and that’s the least of my problems.’

  Joseph couldn’t help but grin to himself in the muted light of the confessional booth. The dark lattice that separated him from the person confessing their sins stopped him from seeing anything but a silhouette. Voices, however, weren’t something that could easily be disguised. Buddy Waters was a long-time parishioner and even-longer-time sinner.

  ‘What is it you have done that requires God’s forgiveness?’ Joseph said.

  ‘Jesus, Father, where do I begin?’

  ‘Well, try not to take the Lord’s name in vain for starters,’ Joseph shot back, and they shared a laugh.

  ‘Sorry, Father, I’ve just had a lot on my plate lately, as you know …’

  Buddy warbled on for the next fifteen minutes, venting about things that hadn’t quite gone his way and requesting forgiveness for things he had done, both wittingly and unwittingly. Joseph sat and listened – not there just to give advice, but to provide a shoulder for people to cry on. He found that confession was more often about people wanting to speak to somebody they knew would listen than about people seeking solutions to life’s problems. To have someone there to hear all of your secrets in complete confidence was unusual, especially in this age of Facebook and Twitter where sharing had gone beyond a joke.

  Buddy eventually came to the end of his diatribe, and Joseph gave him some penance to absolve him of his sins, throwing in a number of Hail Marys, and Buddy left a freer man.

  Joseph sat and waited in the booth for five minutes in case there were any more parishioners or blow-ins needing to be pardoned of their sins, but it didn’t look promising. He knew confession was losing its appeal; the universal decrease in religious activity and people’s increasingly busy lifestyles both played a part. Picking up his Bible, he got to his feet and was just about to switch off the light when he heard the small bell chime on the other side of the booth. Someone had just entered.

  He dropped back into his seat. ‘How can I help you my child?’ he said into the darkness, aware of the shape in the alcove next to him but unable to tell if it was male or female.

  There was a pause before the voice came back at him, as if whoever owned it was weighing something up before deciding to talk. ‘That’s an interesting question, isn’t it, Father?’

  The voice was a man’s, but Joseph couldn’t recognise who it belonged to. But he did pick up on an element of aggression in the tone. Something was also wrong about the timbre, as if the voice was being altered or modified somehow. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right.

  ‘Is it?’ he said, tossing the question back. ‘That’s up to you. I’m here to try to help, to be an agent – a go-between if you like – between you and God.’

  There was laughter from behind the small perforated section of wall, a deep chuckle that in normal circumstances would’ve warmed Joseph’s soul – but not now. The air between them was charged, almost electrostatic, putting his senses into overdrive. Joseph was an expert at reading people and circumstances in rapid time, and a strange sense of dread filled him about where this conversation was going, a darkness that extended beyond the lack of light. The booth felt suddenly suffocating, the old-wood smell almost overwhelming.

  ‘Another interesting concept, Father,’ the man said. ‘But we’ll save that for another day, another time. Right now, before I get into the ritual cleansing of my filthy soul, I need to confirm a few things with you – just for my own peace of mind, you understand. Now, this issue of confidentiality is intriguing. Is it true I can tell you anything and you must keep it between these walls, between you and me?’

  Joseph cleared his throat, becoming more and more concerned about the path this conversation was taking. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ It was never a good thing to hear those words – usually they meant someone was about to unburden themselves of something fairly nasty. ‘It is known within the Catholic Church as the Seal of Confession. In layman’s terms, that means that I have a duty not to disclose anything I learn from penitents during the Sacrament of Penance. As a man of the cloth, that Sacramental Seal is inviolable.’

  ‘Okay, but what about your duty under law?’ the voice continued. ‘As a member of the society in which we all live, aren’t you bound to report certain things – you know, child abuse or murder? Surely you have to tell the authorities if someone’s life is at risk?’

  In the semi-darkness, Joseph stared at the shadowy silhouette. People had tried to trap him with this stuff before – it was nothing new. Maybe this stranger was a reporter or something, looking to break a big story. Well, he wasn’t about to get it here. ‘No, actually I don’t,’ he said, ready to shut this down. ‘The relationship between a priest and a confessor is beyond that – a conversation between man and God. It is private. In situations like those you have described, it would be my responsibility as a man of God to use logic and persuasion to attempt to modify the person’s behaviour and convince them of the be
nefit to society, and ultimately themselves, of ceasing and, in many cases, turning themselves in.’

  There was silence in the other room, broken only by the occasional scratch of a fingernail along the edge of the slim wall that at once separated them and brought them together. Half a minute ticked by, then the conversation continued.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  Taken aback by the change of direction, Joseph reacted on instinct. ‘How long since your last confession?’

  The man exhaled loudly, the silhouette’s shoulders dropping. ‘How long? Well, there’s another good question, Father. At least ten, maybe fifteen years.’

  ‘All the better that you have come back now,’ Joseph said. ‘God is ever hopeful of his prodigal sons and daughters returning to the fold.’

  ‘Well, God has more hope and patience than me then. I’ll be honest with you, Father – my life up until this point hasn’t exactly been a very positive experience. Quite the opposite in fact. We aren’t here to talk about my miserable life, but I have suffered. And the result is, I have made some stupid mistakes I don’t believe I can ever be forgiven for. But that is my cross to bear, and bear it I shall.’

  ‘But that is why you are here,’ Joseph said. ‘To release yourself of that burden, to ease the weight you have to carry, and to absolve yourself of the responsibility of living with mistakes that you can’t undo.’

  ‘I appreciate you feel that way, Father, I really do. But I don’t agree. Some sins are too big to be forgiven, some lapses too great for the damage to be repaired by mere words.’

  Joseph could sense this man was close to unravelling. Exactly what would emerge as a result, he wasn’t sure. There had always been an element of Joseph’s work that fed his hunger to be involved in his community, to be privy to secrets others weren’t. He was human after all, and being a man of the cloth was a solitary existence. The practice of confession was often a release for both him and the confessor.

  ‘Let God be the judge of that,’ he said, leaning in a little closer to the wall. ‘Do not let your fear or stubbornness ruin your chance at forgiveness and a better life.’

  Joseph heard a shuffle in the booth next to him, could almost feel the vulture of indecision tearing at the man’s body. There was a whimper, a barely audible near-sob that echoed through the small rooms before it was stifled.

  Then, without another word, the door to the booth swung open and slammed shut again, the room beside him empty. Gathering up his Bible, Joseph hurried out and around the side of the confessional to catch a glimpse of an overcoat-clad figure whisking away through the church’s large oak front doors.

  He took a few steps down the main aisle of the church and for a moment thought about taking off after him, then decided against it. If the man had something he wanted to get off his chest, he’d be back.

  If not today, then another day soon.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sunday afternoon, 1987

  As always, Mum came and collected me a few hours after the service had ended. Ben and I were sitting on the grass outside the church, waiting patiently. Little had been said between us about what had gone on in Father’s chambers. If Ben didn’t want to say a word, I was more than happy with that.

  ‘Are you playing cricket this arvo?’ Ben asked, flicking a blade of grass into the air as Mum parked the car.

  ‘Yeah, I think so – you?’

  ‘Nah, it’s my little sister’s birthday, so I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, that’s crap.’ I knew how much Ben loved his cricket. ‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at school then – I’ll tell ya all about it then. Hope we have a win.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Ben said, clearly disappointed at having to put up with a group of annoying pink-drenched seven-year-old girls instead being out in the sunshine playing the game he loved.

  Mum waved at me, half hanging out of the driver’s side door.

  ‘See ya,’ I said, slapping Ben with a high-five as I ran past.

  I loped over to where Mum was parked, the heat coming off the asphalt almost causing the soles of my shoes to melt. Opening up the car door, I felt immediate relief as the cool air-conditioned interior smacked me in the face. I slumped into the seat as Mum revved the engine and backed out of the car park.

  ‘How was your morning then?’

  It was the question I dreaded every Sunday. It should have been straightforward – Mum just wanted to know how my morning at church had been. Every week, I wrestled with the idea of answering her question truthfully. I thought about finally telling her that our priest – the man she seemed to admire more than any other, even Dad sometimes – was actually a monster hidden under fancy robes. But I was scared of what might happen if Mum found out, not just how she might react but also where she might end up. Hell seemed like a nasty place, and there was no way I would let any of my family end up there. If I had to take a little bit of pain to make sure that didn’t happen, then so be it.

  ‘It was fine,’ I lied, flicking at my bundled shoelaces.

  ‘That’s it – fine?’ Mum asked, pressing me, but only half concentrating on what I was saying anyway. ‘You say that every week!’

  I didn’t like talking about our ‘special’ time after Mass with Ben, let alone Mum. Even lying about it made me blush. I kept my eyes down. Mum was always so busy that she hardly noticed anything I said anyway. There were times I thought I could just come out and say what had gone on, and she’d probably just grunt, nod and continue driving as if I hadn’t said anything.

  This time though, I wondered if she was starting to realise something wasn’t right.

  ‘You seem quiet – are you sure everything’s okay?’

  But I wasn’t ready to talk – not yet, maybe not ever. For the first time in a while I had to think on my feet. ‘I got in a bit of trouble for not cleaning up the altar properly after Mass, that’s all. Father got a bit grumpy at me, but I’m all right.’

  ‘It was that Ben again wasn’t it – did he distract you? I’ve told you before, he’s trouble. If the two of you can’t stop …’

  I switched off, knowing Mum was going off on one of her rants about Ben – she didn’t like him, and I think I knew why. Every time I came back from church I acted strangely, and I reckon she thought it was because of Ben – that he was picking on me, or bullying me or something.

  If only I could tell her the real reason, then she wouldn’t think like that about him at all.

  Without warning, a wave of guilt swept over me, from the top of my head right down to my toes. I couldn’t control myself and I exploded into tears, moisture running down my reddened face, dripping off my jaw and onto my shirt like raindrops.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mum cried, almost yelling at me.

  ‘Nothing!’ I yelled back, confused by that fact that I was crying uncontrollably but also from being yelled at when I hadn’t done anything wrong. ‘Just leave me alone!’

  Mum slammed on the brakes and veered the car to the side of the road. She stared at me, her face shocked. I never spoke to her like that, and maybe the realisation that something had happened was dawning on her. She reached over and gently pulled me into her chest, rubbing the back of my head. ‘It’s all right, mate, it’s okay.’ She repeated those words over and over, and eventually, after a number of huge sobs like I’d heard little kids do, I calmed, salt still on my lips where my tears had dried.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Mum said, running her fingers down the side of my face.

  The difficulty was, I was just as confused as she was. I looked past her, out the window, staring at nothing in particular and ignored her question. There was so much running through my head. I couldn’t even sort it out in my own mind, let alone put it into words. And I was scared if I opened my mouth and said anything at all, everything would all come bubbling out, spewing forth like a shaken-up soft drink. I shrugged out of Mum’s grip and faced my door, cuddling up against it. ‘Can we please go home?’ I managed to get out, be
fore I forced my lips back together to prevent myself from saying the words that burned inside me. ‘I just want to go home and have something to drink.’

  Mum had a thing about drinking water, so anytime I wanted to cover something up, I just mentioned being thirsty.

  ‘What do I always tell you?’ she said, half scolding me, but still sounding concerned. ‘Drink more water. That’s what your drink bottle is for, mate.’

  ‘I know, I just forgot. And I left my bottle in Father’s room anyway.’

  After that, Mum seemed to calm down a bit, but before we drove off, she placed a finger under my chin and nudged my face back around in her direction. Uncertainty pulled her eyebrows together. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you? I’m your mum, remember, and you only get one of those.’

  I nodded, forcing a smile at her before turning back to face the window. What kind of mum was so bad at reading her own child that she couldn’t even tell when I was lying through my teeth?

  CHAPTER 15

  When Jack rang to say he was taking her out for dinner and wasn’t taking no for answer, Charlotte could barely contain her excitement – or relief. As a workaholic, it felt nice to get away, even for one night – hell, even for one hour. The double murder investigation, along with her ongoing cancer treatment, had consumed her all week – double murders were rare as it was, but for both victims to have links to her brother’s parish was more than she could get her head around. The conflicting responsibilities grappled for her attention – to the community, to her brother, to the victims and their families, to Dash, to herself and her wellbeing, to Jack; the list seemed never-ending. A night off, free from all expectation, was just what she needed, and somehow Jack always seemed to know when she needed him most.