Dead Village by Gerry Tate

but the little tattered dog would turn up more and more, until it became a permanent fixture at the church. ‘Scraps,’ Father O’Neill had named it, and now it answered to that name.
    He threw a little Frisbee across the large room. “Go Scraps, go,” he commanded, and the little dog jumped high into the air and easily caught the spinning disc.
    â€œYou’re a fast little devil, aren’t you”?
    Scraps barked loudly, as if it could understand him, and as he pulled the little woollen bed out from behind the chair, Scaps turned in circles.
    â€œNow I know you don’t like bedtimes, little fellow, but we’ve been over this before. Tell you what, if you calm down, I’ll let you sleep in my room tonight,” he promised.
    It was as though the dog could understand him, and he shook his head as Scraps immediately calmed down and lay flat on his belly.
    As he gave the little dog a friendly pat on the head, the outer door rapped loudly, and Scraps barked noisily, teeth bared.
    â€œNow who on earth could that be Scraps? Why it’s almost eleven thirty.”
    The little dog stared into the hallway, growling, its body rigid, ears pricked.
    â€œNow don’t you go biting anyone,” he ordered the little fluffy dog as he made for the door. “Because you really shouldn’t be here either you know,” he added.
    He pulled at the heavy bolt, and when he opened the thick wooden door, a dazed Tully staggered through it, into the large hallway.
    He had no coat, his hair was wet and ruffled, his shirt muddied and ripped, and his trousers were soaked through.
    Scraps growled angrily at him.
    â€œShut up Scraps, it’s only Tully.”
    Scraps cocked its head when it suddenly recognised Tully, then its tail wagged in a friendly manner.
    â€œWhat’s going on Tully? What has happened to you man?”
    Tully leaned against the wall and held his hand out, as he panted for breath.
    Father O’Neill quickly closed the door against the fierce wind, and helped Tully onto a chair. He had got to know Tully quite well since he arrived at Cappawhite, and had gone fishing with him on many occasions during the past few years. When Tully’s uncle, the Reverend McLeay had recently died, Father O’Neill had given him some time and comfort, and some reassuring words, for which he seemed very grateful.
    It was a full five minutes before Tully could talk.
    â€œI’m sorry for barging in like this Tim,” Tully croaked.
    â€œDon’t be sorry man; obviously something bad has happened to you. Do you want to tell me about it?”
    â€œWell, I can tell you about it Tim, but believing it may cause you some problems.”
    â€œI’ve got all the time in the world my friend, but please excuse me for one moment.”
    Father O’Neill left the room and returned a few moments later with an armful of clothes and a dry towel.
    â€œYou’re about my size Tully, so go and get dried, and change into these, and then we’ll talk some more.”
    Tully thanked him and in five minutes he was dry and changed into the priest’s casual clothes.
    The priest looked at the dog, who by now was licking hard at Tully’s hand.
    â€œDo you know something? I always had the feeling that this damn dog was a protestant. Oh if the head of the church could only see me now,” he joked.
    â€œYou two protestant down and outs prancing about inside the Holy Catholic Church. It’s simply heresy I tell you. Why I’ll be lucky if they don’t excommunicate me.”
    Then he sat down and spoke to Tully in a more serious note.
    â€œWhy don’t you go ahead and unburden yourself my friend?”
    Tully stared hard at his friend the priest for a moment, and wondered where he was going to start with all this. He knew however that he would have to take Father O’Neill into his confidence.
    *  *  *  *  *
    Francis had reached the