Shout in the Dark (2 page)

He dragged himself painfully to the top of
the steps beneath the tall church of the Trinità dei Monti. The men
had gone. He slid down one step at a time to where Anna lay
sprawled, her long black dress pulled up to her waist. The men must
have reached her as she lay defenseless. A small crowd was already
running up from the Piazza di Spagna -- to watch, if not to
help.

As he crouched helplessly beside the
bright red pool forming in the dust around Anna's head, it seemed
that a great stillness had fallen over Rome. He screamed a silent
scream, pressing her hand to his lips. The smell of Anna's perfume
would stay with him for ever.

The three men had returned to shout more
abuse, more taunts from the stone balustrade where the Via Sistina
overlooked the steps. Then they were gone.

"
Bastards!" Marco shouted. "You've killed my wife!" He laid
his head on Anna's stomach. "O, God, and our baby."

A gust of wind caught one of the empty beer
cans and sent it rolling across the broad sidewalk of the Via
Sistina, towards the top of the steps. It tumbled over the edge,
hitting each step in turn as it fell. It stopped where Marco knelt.
He jumped to his feet and hurled it back to where the men had been
standing.

"
Bastards like you deserve to die," he yelled into the
blackness.

Six years later

"
TELL ME, FATHER Marco, do you believe in the
devil?"

Marco Sartini put his arm round Old
Savio's shoulder. The unexpected question from the homeless man
disturbed him. Asked the same thing yesterday, during the
thunderstorm, Marco guessed he might have felt a shiver of fear at
the probability -- the certainty. Today, wearing casual clothes
with his new clerical collar, he smiled and tried to make a joke of
it.

"
What do you want, Savio: a full theological answer?" They
often exchanged greetings by the roadside, but never had the
questions been as deep as this.

"
The devil used to live in Europe, Father."

Marco looked at the man in surprise. Old
Savio was sleeping rough somewhere near the remains of the Foro
Romano. As usual he felt in his pocket for a few coins, aware of
the deadness in Savio's eyes. "You mean Hitler?"

"
Hitler, Mussolini." The old man coughed vigorously. "The
devil Mussolini used to preach to us from the window over there."
He cleared his throat and drew a soiled sleeve across his mouth.
Then the unwashed hand waved towards the drab brown building of the
Palazzo Venezia, with the single balcony extending over the
sidewalk. Bony fingers caught hold of Marco's arm.

"
I believed him, Father." The old man coughed again, his
eyes streaming. "I was a Koch Fascist. You can't understand it
today. I had a friend. There, that surprises you -- an old man like
me with a friend." He continued to cough as he tried to laugh at
his own humor. "We raided churches in the war. Stole the gold and
silver. My friend wanted forgiveness. He even went to work for
Canon Levi. That sort of thing wasn't for me. Not then. But now?
Yes, I want forgiveness now."

Marco wondered why Old Savio was wearing a
coat on a day as hot as this. Filthy coats seemed to be part of a
uniform for beggars, winter or summer. He remained silent as the
sun blasted down on the busy piazza, overlooked by the glaring
marble Vittoriano, the gigantic white wedding cake. Ruins and
opulence, this was Rome, his home. Yes, long ago Germans had
occupied the city -- until the Allies arrived with their tanks. The
1940s. A different century. A different millennium. School history
had touched on it; his grandfather occasionally had some story to
tell.

It was strange to think there were so many
people still alive who had been involved in the wartime cruelty.
Families, married couples like his grandparents, caught up as
innocent victims. Men like Old Savio here, willingly taking part.
There had been no neutrality. A few experts in European history
said it could happen again, as immigrant workers took the jobs of
those who could claim a national identity going back for
generations.

"
You're right, Savio, there were many devils in the
war."

Old Savio's grimy hand pinched more
tightly. "But do you believe in
the
devil, Father?"

The only cloud in the sky started to pass
across the sun as the old man spoke, and Marco fought back the
feeling that this could be some sort of ill omen. Having lived
through the Nazi occupation, Savio should know the answer to his
own question from personal experience.

Marco nodded. "Yes, I believe in the
devil. I believe in Satan."

But Old Savio was becoming agitated. "It
wasn't only gold and silver we stole. We took holy relics.
Important relics."

"
How important, Savio?" Marco noticed the deep veins showing
through the ingrained dirt on the man's scarred face.

"
Important to the faith, Father."

Marco laughed. "Surely faith is more
important than any relic."

It was a clever answer. No, it was stupid.
Even as he spoke he felt angry with himself. It might have been a
good answer on an exam paper at the seminary, but it was a pathetic
response to a confused inquirer in the street. He reached out and
touched the old man; hugged him for a brief moment. The people
passing by turned their eyes away, deliberately, in
embarrassment.

Marco looked up, and in black outline
against the bright sky he could see the balcony on the side of the
Palazzo Venezia. He could imagine Mussolini standing, arm raised in
salute while the crowd in the piazza yelled and clapped and shouted
in hysteria. Television sometimes showed film clips. Old Savio must
have stood here with the crowds. Other priests had lived in those
times of shame.

"
The relic they're showing on television tonight, Father."
Old Savio pulled at his coat as though Marco had untidied it with
his touch. "They say it could shatter the Christian
Church."

Marco shrugged. "I doubt it. The Vatican
only found it recently -- on a dusty shelf." Then he grinned in an
attempt to lighten the situation. "I hope it isn't one you stole.
I've been invited to join the studio audience at TV
Roma!"

Old Savio gripped him again anxiously.
"No, not that one. But I stole a lot of things. Can I have
forgiveness, Father Marco?"

Marco ignored the plea. "I wish I could
have found that relic. Imagine presenting the Vatican with a
discovery like that."

"
It used to belong to Canon Levi -- years ago, before the
neo-Fascists murdered him. My friend ran around for him in Vatican
Archives, fetching and carrying heavy books. He had to leave when
the Canon was killed. I'll bet you didn't know Canon Levi had a
secret daughter." Old Savio smiled slyly. "About your age, she'd
be. Maybe the two of you should get together."

Marco shook his head, but returned the smile
briefly. Canon Levi was now just a name from the past.

Old Savio coughed loudly as he tried to
laugh. "The affair cost Canon Levi his job in the parish. That's
why they pushed him into Archives. Had to get him out of public
view to save a scandal."

The car appeared from nowhere, its tires
screaming on the polished road surface. It was coming too fast for
the bend into the Piazza Venezia, and the driver was clearly in
trouble. In a moment of panic Marco Sartini could see exactly what
was going to happen. He put his hand out to grab hold of the old
man, to pull him to safety.

Old Savio glanced up but ignored the
approaching Alfa. "Help me find forgiveness," he whispered
urgently.

Marco tugged at Savio's jacket, gripping
the filthy threads between his fingers as the car mounted the
sidewalk. The sleeve was torn from his fingers with the
impact.

As a crowd gathered, Marco bent over the
lifeless form. He must pray for peace for Savio's soul. He felt a
rush of tenderness and lowered his head to Savio's chest. A stench
of urine and unwashed clothing rose from the hot ground, making him
want to turn away, but he rested his head on the body. Rejected in
life, Savio would not be rejected in death. Something had been on
the vagrant's conscience from the war.

Marco Sartini spoke into the blood-soaked
ear. "You wanted God's forgiveness, but I ignored you. Forgive me."
And he began to cry.

The driver of the rusting Alfa, scarcely
more than a boy, stayed in the car and stared out at the
bloodstained corpse. For a moment it wasn't Old Savio on the
ground, it was Anna, and he was crouching helplessly by her side in
the darkness on the Spanish Steps. A terrible reminder of Anna's
death six years ago had returned to haunt him.

Marco jumped up and strode towards the
driver, his tears quickly forgotten. "You
stupid
fool!" He wrenched open the door and grabbed the
kid by the shoulders. As he dragged him from the seat he began to
shake him furiously. "You've killed that old man."

As he spoke, he realized that this must be
the most useless start in the priesthood anyone had made. Perhaps
his jeans and casual clothes were an attempt to conceal his new
role in life. Why else had he used it as a disguise for his
clerical collar? Until this moment he'd not realized just how much
grief and anger there was still inside. Bitterness even now that
burned towards the drunken gang who had killed his wife.

"
Leave him, Father. The smelly old fool's dead," a woman
shouted from the small crowd. "We've already phoned for the
emergency services."

Marco turned to the terrified kid from the
Alfa who was being sick in the gutter. "I'm sorry ... sorry I
shouted at you. Here, wipe your mouth with this."

He passed over his handkerchief and
recalled Savio's unanswered plea.
Help me find forgiveness.
Why had the man left it so
late?
Seminary never
prepared you for real life. Today should have been a time of
meditation, of preparation for the coming years of service in the
Church. Three years of theological training, of hard work, and what
answer had he been able to give an old man?

The war was long over, but evil lived on.
Evil was a great survivor. He stared down at Savio.

"
My name is Father Josef Reinhardt. Where is your parish,
Father, Father...?"

Marco was closing Old Savio's eyes and
looked up in surprise as someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Father Marco. Marco Sartini," he responded quickly. An elderly man
wearing clerical black had come forward from the chattering crowd.
"I don't have a parish yet," Marco explained, realizing with relief
that experienced help was at hand. "I'm due to start at my first
one next month."

"
Do I take it that you are only just ordained, Father
Marco?"

He nodded. "I entered the priesthood
late."

Father Josef Reinhardt shook his hand, and
the hold was warm and comforting. "You seem to be coping well. I
will let you speak to the paramedics, Father Marco. Perhaps we can
talk for a few minutes when this is over."

"
Could you please tell me...?"

But the old priest was already on his way
back to join the people watching.

Marco shook his head as he hurried back to
the body of Old Savio. An ambulance had just arrived. "You're
wrong, Father Josef," he called back over his shoulder. "I didn't
do well. This man wanted forgiveness. I didn't help him. I wasn't
listening. All I did was talk about relics."

A
carabinieri
siren wailed in the Via dei Fori Imperiali. The full
emergency services were on their way. This patch of instant death
would soon be swept and hosed clean. Marco shook his head slowly.
And things had been going so well lately.

Rome

JOSEF REINHARDT shifted uneasily at his
desk. What would his colleagues say if they could see the
hesitation? That old Father Reinhardt, the fearless Nazi hunter,
was reluctant to sacrifice a young priest? This was foolishness
indeed. With a steady hand he drew a circle of red, like a sentence
of death, around the name he had just written on the paper. Marco
Sartini, a priest with a declared interest in relics. It had surely
not been chance that had allowed them both to meet for the first
time this morning.

The traffic in the Piazza di Santa Maria
Maggiore disturbed his concentration and he went across the room to
press the old window firmly shut. The mixture of car engines and
frantic horns still penetrated the thin glass, making it vibrate.
Reinhardt felt helpless as he returned to his desk and fingered the
heavy cross of rosewood and silver hanging from his neck. His was
an agonizing decision. But surely the loss of Sartini's life was
nothing compared to the consequences of failure. A fascist Shrine
of Evil. It must be prevented, even if it meant the destruction of
what could be the most powerful relic held by the Church. And the
loss of Sartini's life.