believe. It’s difficult to know who is who. I just need to get a grip and focus. Not sleeping isn’t helping at all.
‘Have the BBC run the story?’ Cruickshank asks McCalvey.
‘No Ma’am. They forwarded it straight onto us. They want to talk to you about when they can show it.’
‘Well, they can wait on both counts. Call legal straight away and get it embargoed. No backscratching on this one, I want it out of circulation for at least forty eight hours.’
She didn’t even flinch, straight to the point and decisive. Tait looks surprised at that news, I can see the cogs whirring as she leans in toward the small screen. She is copying Cruickshank, arms crossed on the table, back straight. Bentley is thoughtful, slinking further back in his chair as McCalvey presses the play button and then leaves.
‘Demi Simpson, Shelley Crabtree, Josie Richards, Kelly Pieterson, Rachel Lavery and Briony Williams.’
A female voice reading out the names, very clipped and precise, a deep husk to the tone. Quick images flashing up, headshots of mainly happy faces imposed on graphic scenes of the women spread-eagled over alters, O’Driscoll in the foreground, his privates pixelated. I thought there were seven. Did they not mention seven women on the news last night?
‘All masochistically murdered by this man, Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll, a paragon on the Roman Catholic Church.’
An image of O’Driscoll fills the screen. He’s dressed in ceremonial robes, standing in front of a font at a baptism, holding a baby. The image starts a slow zoom in on his face as an anger enters her voice.
‘He would have you believe that these women were possessed by evil spirits. He would have you believe that his faith compelled him to rid the world of these evil spirits by killing them. He would stand in front of each and every one of you, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever your religious persuasion and tell you that in the eyes of his God, your world is a safer place without them. Look into his eyes, look deep into his eyes. Do you see empathy, compassion, kindness, warmth, friendship, love?’
I don’t. They are hard and heartless. I notice the baby in the picture is crying. I see that his hand is holding its arm tightly, just as it goes out of shot, the screen now filled with his face.
‘Do you see madness, insanity, evil, even the devil staring back at you?’
His face is gone, the whole screen now filled with his brown eyes, tributaries of blood vessels snaking into the white, making them bloodshot.
‘Or just a man, like any other, a person, like you: or like me.’
Just the brown of the irises fills the screen, then their colour changes to green and the pupils morph from a dull lifeless black to be full of reflected light, moving as they dilate. The camera starts to zoom out. Heavy black mascara and eyeliner around the emerald eyes. White makeup applied around the sockets and into the face. It’s the woman who is speaking, I can see the muscles of her cheeks as they come into view, they are moving in time with the words.
‘Look into my eyes. Do you see the devil staring back at you?’
No, I see Jess. It is Jess. Not just the eyes, but also the curve of her nose, the high cheekbones. It is definitely Jess. I lean closer into the laptop, raising a finger to the screen, tracing the contours of her face.
‘Are you alright Saul? You might want to move back from the screen so we can all see.’
Cruickshank’s tone was forceful and it broke through my obsessive compulsion that every woman I see is Jess long enough to bring me back into the room with the other occupants, to see their perplexed faces. I decide against telling them what my mind is thinking for the moment and lean back from the screen, apologising.
‘Or do you see a clown with a sad face. Does a clown make you laugh, or do you fear it? And if you fear it, why?’
Her full face is on the
‘Have the BBC run the story?’ Cruickshank asks McCalvey.
‘No Ma’am. They forwarded it straight onto us. They want to talk to you about when they can show it.’
‘Well, they can wait on both counts. Call legal straight away and get it embargoed. No backscratching on this one, I want it out of circulation for at least forty eight hours.’
She didn’t even flinch, straight to the point and decisive. Tait looks surprised at that news, I can see the cogs whirring as she leans in toward the small screen. She is copying Cruickshank, arms crossed on the table, back straight. Bentley is thoughtful, slinking further back in his chair as McCalvey presses the play button and then leaves.
‘Demi Simpson, Shelley Crabtree, Josie Richards, Kelly Pieterson, Rachel Lavery and Briony Williams.’
A female voice reading out the names, very clipped and precise, a deep husk to the tone. Quick images flashing up, headshots of mainly happy faces imposed on graphic scenes of the women spread-eagled over alters, O’Driscoll in the foreground, his privates pixelated. I thought there were seven. Did they not mention seven women on the news last night?
‘All masochistically murdered by this man, Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll, a paragon on the Roman Catholic Church.’
An image of O’Driscoll fills the screen. He’s dressed in ceremonial robes, standing in front of a font at a baptism, holding a baby. The image starts a slow zoom in on his face as an anger enters her voice.
‘He would have you believe that these women were possessed by evil spirits. He would have you believe that his faith compelled him to rid the world of these evil spirits by killing them. He would stand in front of each and every one of you, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever your religious persuasion and tell you that in the eyes of his God, your world is a safer place without them. Look into his eyes, look deep into his eyes. Do you see empathy, compassion, kindness, warmth, friendship, love?’
I don’t. They are hard and heartless. I notice the baby in the picture is crying. I see that his hand is holding its arm tightly, just as it goes out of shot, the screen now filled with his face.
‘Do you see madness, insanity, evil, even the devil staring back at you?’
His face is gone, the whole screen now filled with his brown eyes, tributaries of blood vessels snaking into the white, making them bloodshot.
‘Or just a man, like any other, a person, like you: or like me.’
Just the brown of the irises fills the screen, then their colour changes to green and the pupils morph from a dull lifeless black to be full of reflected light, moving as they dilate. The camera starts to zoom out. Heavy black mascara and eyeliner around the emerald eyes. White makeup applied around the sockets and into the face. It’s the woman who is speaking, I can see the muscles of her cheeks as they come into view, they are moving in time with the words.
‘Look into my eyes. Do you see the devil staring back at you?’
No, I see Jess. It is Jess. Not just the eyes, but also the curve of her nose, the high cheekbones. It is definitely Jess. I lean closer into the laptop, raising a finger to the screen, tracing the contours of her face.
‘Are you alright Saul? You might want to move back from the screen so we can all see.’
Cruickshank’s tone was forceful and it broke through my obsessive compulsion that every woman I see is Jess long enough to bring me back into the room with the other occupants, to see their perplexed faces. I decide against telling them what my mind is thinking for the moment and lean back from the screen, apologising.
‘Or do you see a clown with a sad face. Does a clown make you laugh, or do you fear it? And if you fear it, why?’
Her full face is on the
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