Rev. Fr. Joseph ‘Joe’ Akindele whistled in tune with the bopping hip-hop music blasting from his car stereo. He honked at the waving gateman as he drove his sleek car into the church compound. The Rectory was at the back of the church, and that was his destination, but he rolled the car to a halt, when he suddenly parked the car beside the church building.
He had just remembered that he needed to get his Amice out of the sacristy because it needed washing. He removed the key from the ignition before opening the door, and alighting. He continued whistling the tune, even though the stereo was now off. He strolled leisurely into the church, aiming to approach the Sacristy from within.
The church was quiet, which meant his boss was done with the confessions. He turned to his right; the direction of the Altar and Sacristy, but the bleating goat stopped him.
He turned left immediately; startled and annoyed with the goat. His boss’s adopted goat. Timmy stood in the corner, right next to the confessional, and continued bleating, while staring at him. It was unusual, seeing as the cagey old goat liked no one except his boss.
Annoyed at what he termed desecration, he stomped his way towards the goat, determined to chase the nuisance out of a holy place. His gaze was fixated on the goat, so he wasn’t looking down, which explained why he suddenly slipped and found himself lying face-up.
His breath whooshed out of him and he groaned, silently cursing the goat and the tiled floors in his mind. He raised a hand to wipe his forehead, but something sticky touched his face instead. He brought his hands to his peripheral immediately; they were stained with blood.
Sitting up, his eyes roamed the church, before settling on the trail of blood leading to the noisy goat. Behind the goat was the crumpled body of his boss, lifeless and pitiful, while a jagged gash on his neck ruined the peaceful picture.
***
Fr. Joe raised his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat making a trail on his forehead, as he made his way into the Rectory’s living room. He hated funerals but it was his duty to bury the dead, and that included the body of his late boss. He had barely slept since the day he found his boss’s body on the floor of the church. It had been five days since that fateful day and he wished he could turn back the hands of time.
He never should have left the older man alone, he kept telling himself. It had been a gargle of policemen and news anchors in their once peaceful Parish. A murder had occurred and people loved the juicy news. They had questioned him endlessly; he could have sworn they thought he was the murderer. He knew they were aware he was holding something back, but they had no proof.
He patted his pockets, just to be sure the proof was still on him. He brought out his house keys when voices called out his name, making him stop and groan. Before he turned around, he schooled his expression, and gave the approaching boys a dazzling smile.
“Haha, Adeola, Austin.” His boisterous voice greeted the newcomers. “You guys came?”
Looking solemnly, the taller of the two boys answered. “Of course Father. How can we miss saying goodbye to Fr. Lionel?”
“But Father, I served on the altar with you and the Bishop.” The stocky one began. “And like Austin said, we wouldn’t miss saying goodbye.”
Fr. Joe scratched his head absently. “I’m sorry Adeola. My mind was barely on that altar today.”
“Is there anything we can do to help? Anything at all?” Austin asked.
Fr. Joe shook his head. “For now, nothing. The police would want to question those of you holding positions in the church. And that includes you, Austin. A choirmaster has ties to the Priest.”
“Do they have any suspects?” Adeola couldn’t wipe the curiosity off his face.
Before he could respond though, Fr. Joe’s phone rang, interrupting whatever he was about to say. He patted his cassock, and found the phone in the right pocket. He brought it out, looked at the screen, and quickly swiped it.
“Is she awake?” He asked, before the person on the other end could say anything.
He was quiet, as he listened to the other person’s response. Adeola kicked a lonesome stone, making the Priest catch a whiff of his heavy perfume. Fr. Joe retreated subtly, not wanting to show the boy that his perfume was too overbearing
“They want to withdraw security?” He suddenly barked. “Why would they want to do that? Don’t they believe she’s in imminent danger?”
His spectators looked up immediately, and their ears perked up in interest.
“They have got to be kidding me.” He scoffed. “She’s a victim of rape, what more proof of imminent danger do they need? A placard from the psychopath?”
He was silent again, his face mirroring a myriad of expressions “Fine. They can go. We don’t need them. The police have never been useful for the citizens. I’ll talk to the Bishop about hiring private security for her.”
He dropped the call, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled loudly. He tried to smile again, but the action seemed too big to process.
He waved a tired hand at the boys. “I know you are both curious, but I can’t share details with you.”
“But we are willing to help.” Austin said, while Adeola nodded. “Is father’s murder connected to Laura’s attack?”
Fr. Joe pocketed his phone and gave each one a sad smile. “Go home boys. There’s nothing you can do here.”
“But…” Adeola started.
“Go home please.”
The boys nodded and retreated from the weary Priest. As they walked away, Fr. Joe looked around the church compound, staring at the retreating mourners and fellow Priests. Some were exchanging pleasantries by their parked cars, while others wore ashen faces.
One of them murdered their Priest, he said to himself. The proof was in his pocket. He just needed to unravel the shrouds surrounding it.
