The dark figure tiptoed his way across the cobbled pathway, moving through silent streets with modesty. It was an autumn night, where the stars up above couldn't be seen behind the large curdling clouds amongst the navy sky.
There was a soft knock at the door. George saw him through the coloured window, his bustle of hair and pointy nose painted sharply as a silhouette.
The door creaked open, shuddering across the welcome mat as George opened it inwards. The strangers face was dappled orange by the spray of light pouring from the outside lantern, which hung above the door, he stared at a lingering moth hungrily bathing in it's glow.
'Reverend Conroy?' George's sharp voice swatted through the silence and his eyes dizzyingly skittered to focus on the shadowy form standing in the doorway. The reverend was a young-looking brunette man, yet as he stepped forwards into the light his eyes divulged his true age, crowfeet hung across his face like scars of time. He peered at George and grinned with insincerity.
'Clive,' he sniffed. 'Just Clive, please,' he flicking out his elongated fingers towards the visitor.
George hesitantly grasped the cold hands and shook them. The Reverends grip was weak.
George stepped aside and let him shrug his way into the hallway
'It has been years since I was considered a man of faith. I hung up my dog collar to study the miracles of the mind instead.'
George examined Clive's movements as the man took the long scarf away from around his neck like a stole, his finger grasping at his collar. The man's past life was marred across his mind and he stood awkwardly still in the silent hallway.
'Thank you for coming so late.' George spoke with a hushed tone; his voice falling from its normal bass tones to a higher whisper. They stood in such proximity that George's eyes fell past him, thinking it rude to stare.
'No problem' Clive replied, his nostrils flaring.
George could smell the stale coffee on his breath.
'I must ask, do you self medicate?'
'Irregularly father.' George caught his own mistake, but his mind brushed it off. It fizzled with such anxiety one thought didn't stick in his mind for long. 'Sometimes. One night may be worse that others. I'm very reluctant to endure any more.'
George was nauseous with his own truthfulness, the need to tell somebody else about his predicament was almightily hard and now he had finally done it, it felt completely wrong and a betrayal to all: to him and to her memory. He pushed his hands across my mouth trying to rub off the shame.
'Is he asleep?' Clive asked. Amongst the gloom of the hallway, he took out a brown leather briefcase and held in the other hand a small bag. He set them on a table next to him.
'He is medicated at the moment. Alf requested it himself.' George replied. He'd asked for it, not me, George thought. I want that to be clear. I was following his requests for sedation, but I was going against his wishes to allow this man in to the house.
'The night terrors; there is always a calm before the storm sort to speak. This evening he felt it approaching and asked for a larger amount.' George busied himself, peeling through the post which piled up on the hallway table.
'Mr Evans, could I be frank?' His fingers ticked the air; in a way George knew he wasn't asking his permission to be a prick.
'I thought your name was Clive.' George replied, letting out a chuckle, but quickly realised this wasn't a time for dad jokes.
