Hallowed Be Thy Name

By Anthony Hulse

Mysterious man, Ethan Lavender is involved in a series of so-called miracles and is wooed by con man, Jake Randolph, whose intent it is to dupe the public. Father Driscoll pursues Ethan, along with journalist Pamela Hutchins; their intentions differing. After worldwide publicity, the Church and various religious leaders attempt to thwart the man who claims he can heal the sick. Ethan alleges he is visited by Moroni, an apparent holy vision. Gangster, Abdul Rahim sees the financial potential and pursues Ethan to India and Africa, where his cult is thriving. A series of macabre deaths follow Ethan in his quest. Is he really heaven sent, or is he a servant of evil? A frightening tale of deceit, treachery and dishonour. Not for the faint-hearted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291835922

Book preview

Hallowed Be Thy Name

Hallowed Be Thy Name

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-83592-2

Cover image by Shelly Perry spfoto

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Chapter One

The jogging man did not warrant attention from the shoppers as he loped the sun drenched streets of Scarborough. Judging by his rugged appearance, he could have been mistaken for a boxer or a soldier perhaps, but certainly not his actual profession, that of a Catholic priest.

Tragic circumstances ordained Father Oliver Driscoll to abandon his promising boxing career as a young man and take up the mantle of a priest. In only his second professional bout, he had connected viciously with the nose of his young opponent; a blow so ferocious that it eventually led to the death of the boxer. Father Driscoll had partly paid his penance. He now served mankind and prayed for forgiveness for his sins.

The holy man could have been described as handsome if it was not for his broken nose. With his dark, wavy hair and tanned complexion, he had no shortage of female admirers. The gap between his teeth completed his attraction, a feature the women adored. Many times, he had been propositioned, and the temptation tested the priest to the ultimate limit, but so far, he had declined the lustful offers.

Because of his choice of profession, others had suffered, not least of all his ex-fiancée, Cheryl. No amount of pleading could divert him from his eventual vocation, and now at the age of thirty-two, Oliver Driscoll seemed at peace with himself.

The sea breeze caressed his perspiring face when he turned onto the coast road. He smiled and watched the merry children tease the seagulls with their fish and chips. In the distance, the fishing boats made their way out to sea for their morning catch.  

The sound of sirens interrupted the tranquil summer morning. Two fire engines sped by, their urgency apparent.

Father Driscoll ceased his exercise and stooped forward, his hands on his knees. The temptation to light up one of his darned cigarettes nagged at his inner thoughts, and it took considerable will power to prevent him doing so. For five days now, he had denied himself the evil weed, yet he continued to carry them with him, challenging his powers of self-restraint. 

He straightened up and took deep breaths; his eyes fixed on the tall building some fifty metres ahead. Thick black smoke billowed from the windows and the ferocious flames engulfed the structure. The priest broke into a run and watched as the firemen prepared to tackle the blaze.

He joined the inquisitive crowd and asked, What is this place?

It’s the bloody nursery, mate. Poor mites.

There’s still children in there?

Too right. That teacher’s in a right state.

Father Driscoll mouthed a prayer, as his eyes took in the inferno.

The firemen appeared helpless. They attempted to enter the premises, but the fierce heat prevented them from doing so. They directed a powerful jet of water at the window above, and screaming could be heard, which caused some of the watching women to weep loudly.

An extremely tall, blonde man meandered his way through the crowd and brushed past Father Driscoll. With his shoulder-length, fair hair, he certainly stood out from the mass. The young man strode intently towards the building and past the protesting firemen.

Hey, son! Where do you think you’re going? quizzed one of the firemen.

The blonde man turned his head slowly. There’s children in that building.

Don’t you think we know that, chum? Now stand back and let us get on with our work.

The trespasser paused momentarily, before he stepped inside the blazing building, amid the gasps of the audience. Two firemen attempted to restrain him, but were beaten back by the ferocity of the flames.

The arriving policemen conversed with the fire chief, who pointed towards the building. Must be a psycho, suggested the fire chief.

Or maybe he has children in there, added a police constable.

No way, he’s only a kid himself.

Several of the crowd gasped and stepped back in amazement at the sight before them. The blonde man emerged from the flames unscathed, and with a young girl in his arms. He handed her to a fireman, before he once more entered the building. The fireman lowered the girl to the ground and administered mouth to mouth resuscitation.

Father Driscoll approached the officials, who waved him away.

I’m a priest.

You could have fooled me, Father, mouthed a constable.

How is she?

A bald-headed medic looked up. She’s fine.

She’s not burnt?

The medic shook his head. She should be, but she’s untouched. I cannot explain it.

The medics carried the girl into the waiting ambulance, and all eyes turned to the blonde man, who once more appeared at the entrance to the building. Father Driscoll stared intensely at the man, surrounded by the orange flames. Two small children held his hands as he strode towards the ambulance.

Nobody moved or said anything when their unbelieving eyes took in the spectacle. Father Driscoll eventually paced towards the man and stooped down to confront the children, their faces discoloured by the smoke.

Are you okay?

The children nodded in unison and coughed, before the medics reacted and escorted them into an ambulance.

The young hero turned to the fire chief. The building is clear. All the children are safe.

How? I mean...

A constable intervened. Can I take your name, sir?

Is that necessary?

Hell, son, you’re a bloody hero... A darned foolish one, but a hero all the same.

The fire chief seized the arm of the reluctant hero. What the hell went on in there, son? I’ve been in the fire service for almost twenty years and I’ve never witnessed anything like I’ve seen today.

The flames were not as bad as they looked, insisted the hero.

Bullshit! My boys tried to enter the building with protective clothing, but were unable to. How come none of you are burnt?

The blonde man shrugged his shoulders. Lucky, I guess.

The policemen, the firemen, and the priest huddled together and discussed the events of the last hour. None of them could come up with a plausible explanation for what had happened.

Where is he? yelled the constable.

Father Driscoll smiled and looked towards the heavens. A warm soothing glow passed through his body. The policemen tried in vain to locate the hero, but he had vanished.

The priest, lost for words, could not offer a rational explanation, but his faith had been strengthened by the events of the day. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and lit up a cigarette. Had he witnessed a modern day miracle?

******

The Falstaff Hotel, perched on the cliffs of Scarborough’s North Bay, attracted the attention of the media. An overnight landslide threatened to dump the popular, exclusive dwelling into the depths of the North Sea. The east coast of Yorkshire suffered from erosion more than most, having already claimed valuable property over the years.

The owner of the hotel, a distraught, sad looking figure of a man spoke solemnly to the pretty journalist and expressed his concerns for the future.

The journalist’s grey, bloodshot eyes, owing to the previous evening’s drinking binge, hid behind her plush designer sunglasses. Pamela Hutchings retained high ambitions; her post at the Scarborough Gazette she hoped, her stepping-stone to bigger things. The redheaded girl had enough scruples to prevent her from sleeping her way to the top. On more than one occasion, her aging editor had made a play for her, only for him to be rebuffed with a comment of sarcasm.

Pamela Hutchings certainly had the looks of a model, with her long eyelashes, high cheekbones, and perfectly formed nose. Her many hours at the gymnasium kept her in fine shape, but her lack of height disqualified her from the glamorous profession.

The petite journalist oozed class; that is until she opened her mouth. Pamela, born in Liverpool was proud of her roots. Prone to blurting out a loud mouthful of abuse, she invariable won the majority of disputes.

She yawned, jotted down her notes, and tediously listened to the hotel owner. She desired a real case, and not reporting the demise of some snobby hotel.

Her eyes focused on a green Jaguar that sped along the cliff top. The vehicle screeched to a halt and a familiar figure approached. She walked away from the hotel owner in mid sentence to greet the new arrival. Ollie. Long time no see.

Do you know, Pamela, only you could call me that without as much as batting an eyelid?

It does sound better than Father.

Not to me it doesn’t.

Pamela removed her sunglasses to reveal her bloodshot eyes.

Still on the booze I see? moaned the priest.

You’re my friend, not my confessor.

Thank God for that. With your sins, I wouldn’t have much time for my other duties. 

The journalist grinned. So, what are you doing here?

The priest glanced at his wristwatch. Listen, I can see you’re busy at the moment; how about meeting me for a drink in say one hour?

Drinking and driving, and you a man of the cloth.

Orange juice, Pamela.

Okay, you know the way to my heart. How about the Frigate?

The Frigate will do fine.

One hour then.

******

Father Driscoll propped up the bar and noticed the approach of the journalist. The customers welcomed the coolness of the air conditioning, as the temperature outside soared. The hottest June on record had brought the holidaymakers to the North Yorkshire seaside resort in their droves.

A group of thirsty youths massed around the pool table, their attention averted to the shapely girl with the red ringlets. Pamela craved their interest and winked in their direction.

What’s it to be, Pamela? asked Father Driscoll, draining his glass.

A pint of lager will go down just fine, Ollie, she answered, in a strong Merseyside accent.

The priest, although aware she arrived in her car, thought better than to air his protests. His warning would undoubtedly go unheeded.

One pint of lager and an orange juice, please.

They collected their drinks and headed outdoors, away from the leering youths.

Father Driscoll blushed. I understand the weather is stifling, but don’t you think you’re overdoing the... you know? he stuttered, and nodded his head towards her erect nipples that protruded from beneath her flimsy tee shirt.

Father. May the Lord pluck your eyes from their sockets. It‘s too bloody warm for a bra.

I could hardly miss them, could I?

Pamela took a liberal swallow of her lager. Okay, Ollie, what’s the occasion?

Do I need a reason for visiting a friend?

A friend and tenant. I’ll pay you two month’s rent next week.

No, it’s not about the rent. I need a favour.

Go on, urged Pamela.

If I wanted to trace someone, how would I go about it?

Trace someone?

Yes, a man.

Pamela swallowed another mouthful of her golden liquid. Mmm, you could hire a private dick, or go to the police.

I thought that...you know.

Me? I’m not exactly Miss bloody Marple, you know, honey. Now, if you want a christening covered, or a church garden party, perhaps.

Forget I asked.

The journalist cupped her face in her hands and frowned teasingly. Aw, you’re not sulking, are you?

Grow up, Pamela; I’m serious.

Yes, I know you are, and that’s the trouble with you, you’re too bloody serious. Lighten up, Ollie and get a life... When was the last time you had a date?

Pamela!

Sorry, delicate subject, eh…?. One month’s rent.

What?

That’s my offer. You let me off with one month’s rent and I’ll help you trace this person.

I thought it was just a myth about you scousers.

It appears my glass needs replenishing, Ollie.

She laughed to herself as Father Driscoll admitted defeat and headed for the bar.

A passing red sports car joined the traffic and moved slowly. The ogling, middle-aged driver turned up his stereo, obviously in an attempt to impress the females on view. His eyes devoured Pamela, and took in her bronzed legs. He wolf-whistled and winked at his prey, prompting the infuriated girl to rise from her bench.

What yer looking at, you fucking old pervert? she screamed. She made an obscene gesture with her fingers going back and forth.

The returning priest blushed, and the watching audience seemed curious as to why a man of God would associate with such a hussy.

Pamela, please.

The perv’s probably got a bloody wife and kids at home. Tosser! she screamed, as an afterthought.

Here’s your lager.

A half?

You’re driving, lass.

Got any ciggies, Ollie?

He reluctantly reached into his pocket.

Still trying to give them up, eh?

I have given them up, insisted the priest.

Right, of course you have, she said, and accepted a light from a nervous looking man.

Take them. I don’t need them.

Cheers, Ollie…Who’s this fella you’re looking for anyway? Robbed the collection box, did he?

No, of course not. Actually, he did something wonderful yesterday.

Such as?

There was a fire at the nursery on the coast road. The fire brigade gave up all hope of entering the building, when this man walked through the flames and would you believe, saved three children?

Ah yes, I read about it. Nobody was injured, were they?

No. But what happened was nothing short of a miracle.

Pamela coughed and laughed. A miracle?

I know how it sounds, but you had to be there.

These things happen, Ollie. Many people everyday carry out heroic deeds.

No, this was different. He actually walked through the flames.

No shit?

Not just that, the children; they were uninjured.

So, he must have found a gap between the flames.

The priest shook his head. No, I saw the flames licking at his body.

What are you saying? This fella is some sort of superhero?

No, of course not. How did he protect the children?

Pamela took a long draw on her cigarette, and the gentle breeze blew the offending smoke into Father Driscoll’s face. He wafted it away hastily. Did you get his name?

If I did, would I be here?

Do you have a description? she asked, before she removed a notebook from her handbag.

Tall… very tall, about six-four. Thin, long, shoulder length blonde hair.

Did he have a local accent?

Yes, he did.

Age?

Eighteen to twenty five at a guess.

The attractive reporter removed her sunglasses and jotted down the details. Okay, here’s what I’ll do. He sounds like a conspicuous looking fella. I’ll check around the local colleges and pubs. I’ll give you a call if I find him. What if I do find him, Ollie?

I just wish to meet him, that’s all.

Pamela slammed her notebook shut and replaced it in her handbag, before she stood up and finished off her lager. A loud burp escaped from her lips, but she was either unaware of her unladylike gesture, or simply did not care. Okay, we have a deal. If and when I contact Superman, I’ll call you… Say a prayer for me at Mass, Father.

Oh, I will, Pamela. That I will. 

Chapter Two

Jake Randolph drained his coffee cup before he dialled his sixty-second, and hopefully his last customer of the day. Actually, they were more victims than customers, or as the American confidence trickster liked to call them…marks. Randolph, until three years ago used to ply his trade in his native New York, but for reasons unmentioned, he left his homeland hastily.     

Jake Randolph had a gift. A gift of putting people at ease; a priceless asset to have as a con man. With his close-cropped hair and goatee beard, he looked like the proverbial American cousin.

Prior victims of Randolph had informed the police that he looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. His smart Gucci suits and his trademark crocodile shoes ensured that the wily American would stand out as a man of substance, and someone who could be trusted.

Randolph had decided on London; as far away as he could get from the vengeful mob who hunted him. His seedy vocation ordained his loneliness; his wheeling and dealing giving him his needed adrenalin rush.

He cleaned his spectacles and rubbed his forty-year-old weary eyes before he contacted his latest mark. Mr Parker? Hello. It’s Mr Mullins here. I wonder if you’ve thought any more about my offer.

Indeed, I have, Mr Mullins. I spoke to my wife and she’s very impressed by your knowledge of the stock market. HKL did rise on Friday, just as you said it would.

Of course, Mr Parker, didn’t I tell you it would? As I’ve already explained, I’m a specialist stock analyst and would be happy for you to join my team.

How much exactly would I have to invest?

That depends entirely on you. Obviously, the more you invest the more you earn.

Can I have a little more time to think this over?

Randolph cursed beneath his breath and glanced at the wall clock. Mr Parker, I really do have other investors wanting to take your place, and my clientele is limited. I can only keep the wolves at bay for so long.

I just don’t know. It’s such a big risk.

Mr Parker, the risk is minimal. Three times now, I have related to you three different companies that would move in the market. Have I ever been wrong?

Well, no.

Randolph smiled, applied another stick of chewing gum to his dry mouth and listened to the couple discussing the proposition. The con had been simple. He contacted five hundred marks originally, and told half of them the share price of a certain company would drop, the other half that the share price would gain. Left with two hundred and fifty clients, he then used the same tactics a week later. The one hundred and twenty five marks were now whittled down to an impressed sixty-two, and he stood to gain several thousands of pounds from his eager clients. 

Will five thousand pounds suffice, Mr Mullins?

I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I normally do not accept investments of below ten thousand pounds, but I’m willing to make an exception for you. If you’ll send your cheque to the address that I gave you earlier, I’ll send you a receipt and a contract. You won’t regret this, Mr Parker. Randolph punched the air and took a swallow from his coca-cola.

One more thing, Mr Mullins. My wife, being an inquisitive lady, cannot seem to find you listed in the Yellow Pages.

Not yet. The company has just been established and will be featured in the next edition. J.K.Mullins, Financial Advisory Services will be a household name in the very near future, and you’re to be one of the privileged pioneers of the company.

We will receive a receipt?   

Of course. If you wish to travel to London and take a look around the premises, feel free to.

No, I don’t think that will be necessary. My wife doesn’t like travelling. My cheque will be in the post, Mr Mullins.

You won’t regret your decision, Mr Parker. Just sit back and watch your money work for you.

Goodbye, Mr Mullins.

And goodbye to you, sir.

Randolph slammed down the receiver and rubbed his hands together. That his marks were elderly and lived on the other side of the country was not coincidental. The con man selected his victims carefully, and ensured the chosen few could afford the investment. Of course, he had no intention of investing his ill-gotten gains. Once the last of the cheques arrived at the rented office, he would move on, and no doubt adopt another scam.

His eyes took in the newspaper on his desk and he scratched his head. The date on the tabloid showed it was today’s, but he had not purchased the newspaper. An unexpected draught ruffled the pages and turned them one by one.

He reached for the newspaper and his eyes homed in on a headline. MIRACLE MAN RESCUES CHILDREN! Randolph loosened his tie and read the story with interest. Like the vulture he was, he saw an opportunity. Not some two-bit scan, but one that could be the Daddy of confidence tricks. The rewards were great, and he could not resist the challenge that presented itself. 

He read the feature again. Scarborough? Where the fuck’s Scarborough?

******

All efforts to contact the mysterious hero failed. Attempting to locate him, Pamela had covered every college and university in the district, and even interviewed witnesses to the alleged miracle. Father Driscoll had kept his word, and the luckless journalist received her one-month’s free rent, regardless of her failure. 

It was by chance on the following Sunday that the priest encountered the enigmatic character. The annual garden fete at St.Cuthbert’s Church attracted a healthy crowd and the fine weather contributed to the occasion. Father Driscoll mingled with his congregation, and his black robe attracted the burning rays of the sun. He sauntered over to a stall, ordered a cool glass of refreshing lemonade, and wished secretly it were a pint of something stronger. 

The handsome priest, not averse to a pint of Guinness, was an established customer in The Red Rose public house. Privileged enough to be granted a bar tab, a this facility was normally only accessible to the chosen few.

Father. How are you on this glorious Sabbath?

He closed his eyes and grimaced, as the all too familiar voice echoed in his ear. Father Driscoll turned to face the peroxide blonde, middle-aged sexpot; her face caked in too much make-up. Heather Watts seemed on a sexual crusade, and the good-looking priest appeared top of her list.

Miss Watts, what a pleasant surprise.

Heather, please. Good turnout, isn’t it, Father?

Yes, it is, isn’t it?

The infuriating woman continued. "Have you seen Holly Ramsey over there? What a hussy. Would you just look at her flirting

Reviews for Hallowed Be Thy Name

[pjfiala · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

You'll love the twists in this book.