The Spoil

Ezekiel 38:13 - “Sheba, and Dedan, and the merchants of Tarshish, with all the young lions thereof, shall say unto thee, Art thou come to take a spoil”?

Stewart looked down in horror as he watched his life blood flow out in front of him. Just a few seconds ago it had been pumping through his veins as it had done so for the last twenty-eight years. Now his veins were emptying at an alarming rate. The red liquid ran down the pavement taking with it a discarded chewing gum wrapper, it slipped over the kerb and onto the silent street. All his years of training, seeing men and women die in front of him still couldn’t prepare him for the shock of his own blood pouring out of him with abandon. He looked up to see his old first aid instructor, when he was at the barracks in Essex five years ago. He was standing in front of Stewart holding an old fashioned milk bottle filled with a bright red liquid. The instructor poured out the red liquid onto the ground where it quickly became impossible to distinguish from Stewart’s own blood.
“Think of it like this Stewart”, said Bill, his left arm positioned like a teapot handle. “If you poured a pint of blood on the ground it looks quite a lot, doesn’t it? He asked with that familiar crooked smile of his, imitated by almost everyone who came into contact with him.
Stewart found it difficult to nod in agreement he felt a searing pain in his chest as his head moved slowly up and down. Why was he getting a first aid lesson, just help me up.
“But you can obviously give a pint of blood without putting yourself in any danger, right? So, come on Stewart, the ABC of first aid is?” asked Bill.
“Airway, breathing, circu, circu-lay-tion, sir”, Stewart’s voice trailed off as he struggled to finish his answer.
He began to cough and watched as more of his precious blood trickled out of his mouth and down his grey Nike sweatshirt. The image of his old instructor disappeared. Stewart slowly looked around and thought that there was an awful lot of blood leaving him, voluntarily. Stewart struggled to lift his hand, his first finger was pointing outwards. He slowly and deliberately moved it towards the tiny hole in his chest.
“Where is the blood coming from?” he continued to wonder, albeit in sheltered ignorance. The sudden shock of being hit in the chest, lying on the ground and seeing all this blood was too much for his brain to properly assimilate. Part of his brain was still trying to maintain that all systems were normal, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Stewart tried to move again, but yelped, like the wounded animal he was, at the sudden and searing pain which was shooting through his fragile body. His arm dropped to the ground, he winced before his head drooped in obedience to his impending demise. He was propped up against a section of wall which had survived a suicide bomber’s attack a few months ago. The local council hastily stuck on a metal plaque to serve as a memorial to the eleven souls whose lives had been wiped out. Stewart had passed the wall for several weeks on his journey back and forth between his hotel and the covert visits he was ordered to make around town, never for a minute imagining that he would become its twelfth victim.

Stewart was unaware of the large exit wound which was the source of his massive blood loss, or was it that his natural defence mechanism was blocking this information from him? Either way Stewart continued to watch helplessly as his blood continued to flow under his legs down towards the kerb and into the still, silent street. At nearly three in the morning there was more chance of seeing a wild animal scavenging for food than for a human being to make an appearance. He felt the warmth of his blood through his sweat-pants, but thought that there must be better ways to get a heat rather than getting shot. Suddenly the words exit and wound, shot through his brain with the same velocity as the 9mm bullet which had caused all the damage.
“Get up Stewart”, he suddenly heard his father shout. Stewart tried to lift up his hand for his father to pull him up, but he couldn’t move. His thought processes were rapidly disintegrating as fast as the blood that was rapidly leaving his cold damp body. Stewart involuntarily shivered for the last time as his body temperature plummeted below the normal 37 degrees centigrade.
“Make it stop”, he screamed, but no voice could be heard outside of his own head. His mother was right, he shouldn’t have moved down to London, where began the chain of events that led to this most repugnant of situations. A single tear rolled down his white cheek, it was all he would allow himself.
He managed to lift his head for one last time and watched as his surroundings began to blur into each other. The buildings with their quaint cafes he used to frequent for his cups of black coffee merged with the ground and the night sky into a child-like painting of dark colours with splashes of white spots. Stewart closed his eyes and bowed his head. His wife came into view, running towards him. She was wearing his favourite dress that he had bought her from their weekend in Paris last August. He marvelled at her brown hair dancing in the bright sunlight, she stopped in front of him and holding his shoulders whispered into his ear.
“I love you darling”.
He felt the gentle touch of her lips against his cheek before the darkness descended upon him.

Father O’Neill was having the ‘doubts’, serious ones, concerning his chosen vocation as a Roman Catholic priest. He had been in the profession for nearly five years but recent events had caused him to have, ‘the doubts’. It felt like treacle slowly enveloping his entire body, a thick sticky substance that he could not escape. But worse than that, he thought people could see them, ‘the doubts’ that is. They surrounded him, enveloping him and slowing down his every movement.

There were two reasons for, ‘the doubts’, and one of them naturally enough involved a woman the most beautiful woman, incidentally that he had ever seen. Although Father O’Neill hadn’t seen that many women at close quarters, he was correct, she was stunningly beautiful. She was slightly taller than him and had long auburn hair. He found a picture of his mother before she was married and was amazed that her hair was the same as Valerie’s, she would have approved. Until recently he’d never really thought about women that much in his twenty-four years of existence, sure he had a girlfriend when he was in his early teens, but that short bit of romance was soon replaced by rugby and then his training into the priesthood. His uncle Michael was a priest so it was inevitable that another one of the O’Neill’s would become a priest, statistically speaking you understand.

Valerie met Father O’Neill at her Grandfather’s funeral, they very quickly and unexpectantly hit it off, so to speak. She had some initial concerns that she found this priest quite attractive, was it a sin, she asked herself after their first meeting? After their third encounter she convinced herself it wasn’t and quite happily and unequivocally allowed herself to fall in love with him, yes it really was as quick as that. She admitted to him later that she found it very erotic and slightly dangerous that she was attracted to a man of the black cloth. He liked it that she would linger on the word black. This comment produced a rather large smile on the face of Father O’Neill and helped to plant not a seed but more like a crop of self doubt in his chosen profession. The other reason, which in the final analysis would prove to be the main one, was that his faith was cast into serious doubt following a set of papers which he had been left in a will by a distant relation who had recently died.

Father O’Neill was carving out for himself a reasonable reputation in the field of archaeology. He had visited and participated in several digs in the UK and had discovered an ancient vase on his recent visit to Israel, which he was immensely proud of. Valerie shared his passion on all things ancient and was soon accompanying him on his more and more frequent digs. He was studying for a degree in archaeology which was keeping him more and more away from the Priesthood.

Father Murphy called Father O’Neill into his office. Father O’Neill knew that Father Murphy would only call you into his office if he thought you were contemplating leaving the Priesthood or ‘coming out’. With much trepidation Father O’Neill entered the inner sanctum of Father Murphy’s office. It was every bit the typical Priest’s office, dark wood, lots of old books and a musty smell that no amount of air fresheners could ever completely eradicate.
“In you come, Father O’Neill”, welcomed Father Murphy, he unexpectantly gave Father O’Neill a big hug, greeting him like a long lost friend, who owed him money.
“Ah, there we are now, he continued in his strong Londonderry accent. Father Murphy was definitely old school, but recently he was coming round to many of the issues facing the modern priesthood. He understood the need to be more of a political animal, he was more open to an ecumenical attitude to other religions and he was more subtle in his approach to persuading young Priests not to leave the synod.
“I have to say, Father O’Neill, you are certainly one of my favourite priests, I hope you’re not embarrassed by that?” asked a very pious Father Murphy.
“Eh, no, Father Murphy, in fact I take it as a compliment” lied Father O’Neill nervously, this would cost him several hail Marys.
“Now John, we’re long over due to have a wee chat about how you are getting on, in fact I was just thinking the other day, I wonder if Father O’Neill has been on any of his wonderful archaeological excursions recently?”, he asked smiling for slightly longer than was comfortable for Father O’Neill.
Mrs Brown, Father Murphy’s housekeeper for the past fourteen years, came in just on cue with two mugs of tea and some chocolate digestive biscuits. She knew instinctively when to bring in the tea, especially when Father Murphy was having one of his, ‘talks’ with a young priest.
The two Fathers relaxed a bit more as they drank their tea and dunked their biscuits.
“Father O’Neill, it’s a difficult life being a Priest, I make no bones about it” said Father Murphy using one of his favourite phrases, Father O’Neill began mentally counting the ‘bones’ phrase to see how many times he would say it. Father Carnegie claimed to have counted twenty-two in one sitting, but most of the younger Priests thought that was a bit excessive.
“But there are many rewards and I don’t just mean the obvious one, when we will be with our Lord in heaven”, continued Father Murphy.
“You can have a lot more influence as a priest than you might think, you can affect people’s lives and there’s the travels, you’ve done a fair bit now haven’t you John?” asked Father Murphy, dropping the last of his digestive into his tea.
For some reason Father Murphy’s last remark caused Valerie to pop into Father O’Neill’s head, the way she was dressed in his mind meant that she’d catch her death of cold, Father O’Neill choked on his tea.
“Are you alright there John?” asked a concerned Father Murphy.
“Oh yes Father, yes I’m fine, just a bit of biscuit at the back of my throat you understand”, spluttered Father O’Neill adding a small cough for good measure.
“Now are you sure, I don’t want you dying in front of me, oh my, the paperwork there would be”, laughed Father Murphy, winking at the young priest. “And eh, how’s that young lady you’ve been seen with John?” enquired Father Murphy.
Father O’Neill’s face matched the deep red velvet curtains which had hung in Father Murphy’s office for the last eleven years.
“She’s just a friend Father Murphy, you know, she likes the archaeogoly like me”, stammered a very embarrassed Father O’Neill.
“Is that right John, well that’s easy for you to say”, smiled Father Murphy.
“I mean archaeology Father”, replied a rather sheepish Father O’Neill still reeling from the fact that his mentor was somehow able to read his mind.
“John I’m playin’ with you, I know fine well what you mean. Listen I’m all for you havin’ friends of the female persuasion, but make no bones about it, you’re a Priest John”, said Father Murphy, finishing in a more serious tone.
The words hung in the room for an age. Father O’Neill counted two in his head and began to search the room for inspiration.
“I have a question Father Murphy” said Father O’Neill out of the blue.
Father Murphy was also taken by surprise he shifted in his large red leather chair which made a rather unfortunate noise not dissimilar to when someone expels air from their bottom. Father O’Neill bowed his head and smiled.
“So what is your question John?” asked Father Murphy, completely ignoring the noise.
Father O’Neill composed himself.
“Where does it actually tell us in the bible that we go to heaven when we die?” said an emphatic Father O’Neill. He sat back quiet pleased with himself and crossed his arms. Father Murphy was stunned by John’s question but tried not to show it as he too looked around the room contemplating his carefully worded reply.
“Where in the bible, where in the Bible?” he repeated. “Now what has caused you to consider such a question?” retorted Father Murphy clasping his hands together. He sat more upright keen to hear his young apprentice’s reply.
Father O’Neill noticed for the first time that Father Murphy looked old, not doo-laley old, but just old, the opposite of young. Promotion had passed Father Murphy on at least two occasions that Father O’Neill knew of. The rumour was that the cardinal told Father Murphy to his face, “that he would never be a leader of men”. It took a few months for Father Murphy to get over the Cardinal’s statement. Recently, however, it seemed that Father Murphy had accepted his lot in life and in fact had taken it upon himself to ensure that the young priesthood did not die out on his watch. Father O’Neill seemed reluctant to disclose the reason for his question. Father Murphy interjected. He stood up and walked towards the only window in the room. Outside the rain had recommenced, it was March after all what was he expecting? The seasons were passing him too quickly for his liking.
“I too had, ‘the doubts’, we all get them from time to time. Always when we least expect them”, said Father Murphy. He turned around and walked slowly towards the young man. Father O’Neill shifted uncomfortably in his chair, Father Murphy’s ability to read his mind was really beginning to alarm him. Father Murphy sensed his prey’s unease and moved in for the kill. He leant over Father O’Neill eye-balling him, his voice deepened.
“Now John, you know the answer to this question, you have studied the Catholic faith for over four years. I want you to write out the answer and come back to me in seven days with your answer. Don’t disappoint me John”. Father Murphy moved back to his upright position and resumed his stance at the window. Father O’Neill had not expected the third degree quite like that he shivered involuntarily in his seat. It was beginning to annoy him that Father Murphy had this hold on him. Here he was having serious doubts about his faith, clearly needing more support, and all Father Murphy could do was look out the, “bleeding window”. Another Hail Mary, thought Father O’Neil. Father Murphy watched Father O’Neil’s reflection move off the chair and out the room. He knew he would have problems with this one.

Stewart MacDonald’s body was flown back to his hometown of Glencoe in the highlands of Scotland by a privately chartered helicopter. It landed at the local hospital to reduce the risk of suspicion. The usual questions from the staff were soon answered as they watched the black hearse come into view. The black car had been ‘pimped’ from an old Mercedes Benz estate, disguising its daily usage from everyone apart from the locals. The car made its way slowly towards the still helicopter. It collected its silent passenger and drove respectfully out of the hospital grounds. Glencoe sits beneath the magnificent Cairngorm, mountains renowned for its hill walkers and climbers. It was therefore assumed that the deceased had died on one of the more dangerous Munroe’s. Even Stewart’s parents were unaware that he had died in Tel Aviv, Israel.

Mr and Mrs MacDonald were met by a tall, thin man with a blue pin stripe suit. His grey hair and thin features belied his true age. He was carrying a leather briefcase filled with the necessary paper-work required for such a solemn ceremony such as this. He showed them politely into his brightly lit but sparse office and waited for them to sit down first in front of the old oak table which had witnessed many similar such sad occasions. After seven years he had the routine down to perfection. Knowing when to pause to allow the family to gather themselves together. Knowing when to interrupt without causing offence. Knowing when to usher them out of his office and into a waiting car when the business was concluded. But today was different, he knew the deceased personally.
“I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am Mr & Mrs MacDonald. As you know, I knew Stewart and I can honestly say that he was a credit to you, your family and his country”. Colonel Stephens, for once in this type of situation, was genuine in his sentiments towards the bereaved. He was not a callous man but he found it difficult to exude genuine emotion unless he was familiar with the deceased. It was probably a self defence mechanism to allow him to control himself in front of a normally emotional parent. Today he was finding it more and more difficult to keep himself in check. All his years of training and experience were slowing ebbing from him as he looked down at the passport photograph of Lieutenant Stewart Cameron MacDonald of the fusilier highlanders. Perhaps it was also the circumstances of Stewart’s death which angered him. He had, without success, tried to establish exactly what happened to Stewart. The Colonel was not a man to take defeat lightly.

He looked out of his office as the MacDonald’s quietly signed the necessary paperwork. He sensed that they had finished and turned back to face them waiting for the inevitable question. He heard it in his head before Mr MacDonald’s mouth formed the words.
“My son has been in his grave for nearly two weeks now and no-one has told us exactly how he died”. Mr MacDonald squeezed his wife’s hand.
Colonel Stevens had the rehearsed speech committed to memory this was the thirty-second occasion he would have to repeat it. Except today was different. The Colonel hesitated as he began to form the words which he knew would not satisfy Stewart’s devastated parents. The words were forming in his lips, when to his surprise he said,
“I, eh, don’t know”. Mr and Mrs MacDonald were shocked. They looked blankly at each other unsure if they had heard correctly, despite the fact that Colonel Stevens had said it twice.
“I know this will come as a complete shock and I apologise, I have tried to find out personally but Stewart was working for MI5 latterly and he was involved in very secret work for the government”.
Mr and Mrs MacDonald continued to look blankly, unaware of their son’s covert operations.
“I shouldn’t really be telling you this but I wanted you to know that I tried my best to find out, as I say I worked for four years with Stewart, he was a good lad, it’s been…”.
The Colonel’s voice trailed off, his audience were unable at this time to take in the enormity of what he was saying. The Colonel took a deep breath.
“I’m going to find out come hell or high water I will find out why Stewart was taken from you”. The Colonel sat back in his seat fighting his emotions with every fibre of his being. Mr and Mrs MacDonald looked at each other then nodded in unison to the Colonel. Mr MacDonald stood up and put out his hand to shake the Colonel’s hand. The Colonel also stood up and both men took a firm grip of each other’s hand.
“I will hold you to that”, finished Mr MacDonald.

Mr and Mrs MacDonald slowly left the Colonel’s office, the Colonel was already looking out of his third floor office across the city of his birth and out towards the hills he often walked. He felt a single tear slowly run down his face and was suddenly angry with himself that he hadn’t cried when his own father died.