Houses Full of Deceit

Prologue

As a cage is full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit: therefore they are become great, and waxen rich. -- Jeremiah 5:27, KJV

A village in Italy
7 October, 19—

An observant person would have been suspicious at once when they saw the cab driver. In the first place his uniform didn't fit; the sleeves were a full inch too long and the jacket hung loosely on his shoulders. In the second the photo on his driving license was conveniently obscured by a black stain. It looked suspiciously like ink.

In the third, taxi drivers normally talked non-stop. Possibly they thought their passengers would give them extra money to make them be quiet. This one, however, helped the passengers load their luggage into the boot while maintaining such a stony silence that he might have been a Trappist monk.

In the fourth, he wore his cap with the brim pulled down over his forehead. In the fifth, on the only occasion when he did speak, he revealed a strong foreign accent and an imperfect grasp of Italian grammar.

Unfortunately for them, the two passengers were in too much of a hurry to be observant. They were, as the cab driver thought as he watched them, doing a bunk.

Father Stephen Keir had the most active role in the unfolding drama. First he emerged from the chapel's back door carrying two suitcases. He loaded these into the car's boot. Then he took a careful look around the street. No sign of anyone, especially not of the parents of a certain unfortunate young woman who would be looking for vengeance. He went back into the chapel and returned a minute later with Father Ricci. He practically shoved the other priest into the taxi. Then he locked the chapel door, climbed into the taxi, and ordered the driver to leave.

"Of course, sir," the driver said, and that was when the passengers should have noticed the fifth suspicious thing.

Neither of them did. They were too busy trying to look out without being seen.

Once they were on the main road and apparently hadn't been spotted, Keir spoke his mind. He harangued the other priest in a mixture of English and Italian.

"You idiot, you should have done what I did! Keep the girl as your mistress until you tire of her, then send her to a brothel on the other side of town! Tell her family you've found a good job for her somewhere far away! And if you've got her pregnant, put the blame on someone else! Now I've got to get you out of the country until this dies down. And I had such a good job in Rome!"

The car swerved suddenly as it turned onto a side road. The passengers were only interested in looking out the back window to make sure they weren't followed. If they'd paid more attention to what was in front of them, they might have wondered why they were heading into the mountains instead of towards the nearest large town.

Keir continued grumbling for the next ten minutes. Gradually it dawned on both of them that the road was very narrow and becoming terribly rough. Ricci frowned.

"This can't be right!" he said.

"But it must be. The driver was hired and given his instructions by..."

The driver slammed on the brakes. Both passengers were flung out of their seats. Keir hit his head on the window-frame. Ricci collided with the front passenger's seat and fell to the floor. The driver turned round while a woozy Keir was rubbing his head. Ricci picked himself off the floor. He looked up. His eyes widened.

A tremendous roar filled Keir's ears. Red stained the opposite window and the seats. Ricci's head — what was left of Ricci's head — was a featureless chunk of meat.

The car shook as the driver got out. He pulled the back door open. Keir stared up at a gun's barrel.

"Get out," the driver said. He spoke English. English, Keir realised with horror, with the unmistakable guttural accent of West Belfast.