never know.’
‘Anyway, he’s tucked away in St Mark’s now, safe and sound.’
‘I know,’ said Rosen. ‘I’ve been to see him.’
‘Really?’ She sounded amazed.
‘When I went there, I showed him my laptop because they don’t have computers at St Mark’s. I Googled his name. There was very little about him. There were brief replicated
accounts of him dying in a road traffic accident in Kenya, but there was absolutely nothing about the story you’ve told me, Alice.’
‘I’m only telling you what I heard at the time, in the nineties.’
‘I’m not doubting you,’ said Rosen. ‘It’s just . . . How is it that he’s been reported as having died in a road traffic accident? The internet thrives on
events such as you’ve recounted: devils, possession, murder, lynch mobs, miraculous survival . . . Yet there’s nothing on the net.’
‘This happened during the infancy of the internet and it happened a long way from here.’ She paused, waiting for Rosen to speak. Easily irritated by half-baked speculation about
police corruption and manipulation of the truth, he remained silent about his conclusions on the behaviour of the Roman Catholic Church.
‘What do you think happened, David?’ asked Alice.
‘From what you’re saying,’ – Rosen spoke as if he found it hard to believe the words coming from his mouth – ‘the Catholic Church got Father Sebastian out of
Kenya as quickly as possible.’
Alice nodded. ‘And?’
‘And stories about his death in an RTA were manufactured and posted on the internet during the early days of the World Wide Web to kill off the version you’ve told me.’
‘That’s about the top and bottom of it. We’ve covered up tens of thousands of child abuse cases, why not this?’
Why not a handful of dead Africans?
thought Rosen. Especially as Flint had received summary justice from the mob. Especially as he had gone to Kenya with the pope’s blessing.
‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.
Alice shook her head. ‘No. Nothing else to add.’
Rosen thanked her sincerely and reassured her that he would protect her as a source of information.
He stood up. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else?’
‘Yes. I’ll have another large glass of red wine before you leave. And will you be seeing Father Sebastian again?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Then be very, very careful. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. No one does.’
24
T he idea for the hoist came from a TV medical documentary that Herod had taped and watched whenever he needed a distraction. He’d had the
tape for years and, although he wasn’t keeping count, he knew he must have watched it from beginning to end at least two hundred times.
‘Saving Dannie’ detailed a day in the life of Laura Ashe, a single mother from Glasgow, and her daughter Dannie, a paraplegic eight-year-old with profound and multiple learning
difficulties. Dannie, whose range of independent abilities extended to blinking, swallowing, filling her nappy and – sometimes – smiling at the sound of her mother’s voice when
she sang, made Herod feel better.
To bath Dannie, Laura used a Faboorgliften hoist, a merciful wonder of Norwegian engineering. The Faboorgliften was strong and sturdy. It was a gift for carers too old, too young or too ill to
handle heavy equipment and the heavier bodies that the hoist made manageable.
The documentary was tastefully filmed with no specific nudity. The Faboorgliften hoist acted much like a claw in an amusement arcade ‘Grab-a-Gift’ game. When the arm of the hoist
descended, Laura fitted the sling, which was hooked to the arm by four clips, beneath Dannie’s body. With the aid of the hoist, Dannie could be lifted by her sciatic mother from wheelchair to
bath to mobile bed.
When the will of Satan was made known to him, his first step on the path of faith was to order a Faboorgliften hoist, just like the one used by Dannie’s self-deprecating mother.
Long distance
‘Anyway, he’s tucked away in St Mark’s now, safe and sound.’
‘I know,’ said Rosen. ‘I’ve been to see him.’
‘Really?’ She sounded amazed.
‘When I went there, I showed him my laptop because they don’t have computers at St Mark’s. I Googled his name. There was very little about him. There were brief replicated
accounts of him dying in a road traffic accident in Kenya, but there was absolutely nothing about the story you’ve told me, Alice.’
‘I’m only telling you what I heard at the time, in the nineties.’
‘I’m not doubting you,’ said Rosen. ‘It’s just . . . How is it that he’s been reported as having died in a road traffic accident? The internet thrives on
events such as you’ve recounted: devils, possession, murder, lynch mobs, miraculous survival . . . Yet there’s nothing on the net.’
‘This happened during the infancy of the internet and it happened a long way from here.’ She paused, waiting for Rosen to speak. Easily irritated by half-baked speculation about
police corruption and manipulation of the truth, he remained silent about his conclusions on the behaviour of the Roman Catholic Church.
‘What do you think happened, David?’ asked Alice.
‘From what you’re saying,’ – Rosen spoke as if he found it hard to believe the words coming from his mouth – ‘the Catholic Church got Father Sebastian out of
Kenya as quickly as possible.’
Alice nodded. ‘And?’
‘And stories about his death in an RTA were manufactured and posted on the internet during the early days of the World Wide Web to kill off the version you’ve told me.’
‘That’s about the top and bottom of it. We’ve covered up tens of thousands of child abuse cases, why not this?’
Why not a handful of dead Africans?
thought Rosen. Especially as Flint had received summary justice from the mob. Especially as he had gone to Kenya with the pope’s blessing.
‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.
Alice shook her head. ‘No. Nothing else to add.’
Rosen thanked her sincerely and reassured her that he would protect her as a source of information.
He stood up. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else?’
‘Yes. I’ll have another large glass of red wine before you leave. And will you be seeing Father Sebastian again?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Then be very, very careful. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. No one does.’
24
T he idea for the hoist came from a TV medical documentary that Herod had taped and watched whenever he needed a distraction. He’d had the
tape for years and, although he wasn’t keeping count, he knew he must have watched it from beginning to end at least two hundred times.
‘Saving Dannie’ detailed a day in the life of Laura Ashe, a single mother from Glasgow, and her daughter Dannie, a paraplegic eight-year-old with profound and multiple learning
difficulties. Dannie, whose range of independent abilities extended to blinking, swallowing, filling her nappy and – sometimes – smiling at the sound of her mother’s voice when
she sang, made Herod feel better.
To bath Dannie, Laura used a Faboorgliften hoist, a merciful wonder of Norwegian engineering. The Faboorgliften was strong and sturdy. It was a gift for carers too old, too young or too ill to
handle heavy equipment and the heavier bodies that the hoist made manageable.
The documentary was tastefully filmed with no specific nudity. The Faboorgliften hoist acted much like a claw in an amusement arcade ‘Grab-a-Gift’ game. When the arm of the hoist
descended, Laura fitted the sling, which was hooked to the arm by four clips, beneath Dannie’s body. With the aid of the hoist, Dannie could be lifted by her sciatic mother from wheelchair to
bath to mobile bed.
When the will of Satan was made known to him, his first step on the path of faith was to order a Faboorgliften hoist, just like the one used by Dannie’s self-deprecating mother.
Long distance
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