It was a very strange situation in the presbytery. Father Brown couldn't comprehend how there was another man living in the same house, yet he never saw him.
He knew that the Inspector probably didn't want to talk to him. He'd been improving, in terms of his physical health, but he kept himself to himself. Mrs McCarthy told him that he'd made his way downstairs to offer help with the dishes, but he hadn't set eyes on the man in several days. He certainly wasn't very obtrusive - there was never any sign of his existence, bar a towel folded in a different way in the bathroom, or catching a glimpse of him returning to his bedroom one night.
The talk between himself, Sid and the patient had been the only exception to this rule. The only time he had spoken to the Inspector. In all honesty, he was stumped. He didn't know what to say.
He often woke during the night; he put it down to advancing age. He often prayed, and when that was done, he clambered out of his bed, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and padded softly downstairs.
Attempting to return to sleep without the aid of cocoa, or some similar warm beverage, was utterly pointless.
He rounded the bottom of the stairs and was rather startled. A dim light shone in the study, and he could hear activity.
When he reached the door, silent as he could be, he saw the source of activity was his house guest; kneeling on the floor, sifting through the various volumes of his bookcase.
The priest tapped gently on the doorframe to alert the man of his arrival. He, still kneeling with a book in his hand, craned his neck and looked very like a child caught stealing sweets.
"I wasn't snooping." He immediately announced, looking rather scared.
"Don't worry," Father Brown soothed, "Had I have been residing in your house like this, I'd have probably went exploring too."
"I know." Sullivan said naturally, before his eyes widened, "Oh, I mean -" He started struggling to his feet, ''Sorry, that probably -''
''It's quite alright.'' The priest interjected, ''I was planning on brewing some cocoa, if you'd care for a cup?''
For some reason, it felt more like an imperative than a simple question. Sullivan bowed his head and followed his host to the kitchen.
Needless to say, when Father Brown first met Inspector Sullivan the thought that the two of them would one day (or rather night) sit at the kitchen table together in their dressing gowns did not arise.Yet now they sat, nursing steaming mugs, in the strange light, in the dead silence.
Sullivan stared morosely into his drink, which was still too hot to sip.
Father Brown decided that now was the moment for the reckless decision he'd been contemplating for days.
''I was rather hoping, Inspector,'' He began carefully, ''That you and I might be able to have a little chat, so to speak.''
''I had a feeling you were going to say that.'' The dark haired man mumbled, in a tone that suggested nothing, not positive or negative.
''And?'' The priest persisted, ''Would you feel comfortable if we had that now.''
Sullivan, now looking over his shoulder towards the curtains, shrugged his shoulders. ''Fire away.'' He said, in the same distant tone as before.
The older man took another sip of his drink, to give him time to comprehend the wording of the delicate question.
''The overdose,'' He enquired, in his calmest of tones, ''Are you still claiming it to be an accident?''
Sullivan uttered a derisive little laugh. ''Give yourself a bit more credit, Father,'' He recounted drily, ''I know you know it wasn't.''
''There's my tiresome intelligence, as you gracefully put it,'' The priest was not quite comfortable enough to laugh along, ''Why are you admitting it now?''
''Because I know it doesn't look like an accident.'' Sullivan stated, ''I didn't bother making another show of it.''
Another. The word was uttered with such ease. Father Brown felt a trickling sense of dread run down his spine.
''Another?'' He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Sullivan swallowed a draught of his drink, and licked his bottom lip in an alarmingly childlike manner. ''Don't suppose you could use your precious seal of the confessional for this conversation?'' He asked, ''Or does that not apply to men like me?''
''It applies to all who seek it. How? When?''
''Oh, it was before Kembleford, ages ago.'' Sullivan was starting to look a bit uncomfortable, ''Didn't work, I moved on, no one found out; not a big deal, honestly.''
''Attempted suicide is a very big deal,'' The priest remarked gravely, ''Not just in a spiritual sense either.''
''It was just teenage drama, really, and then-''
''Teenage? How young were you?'' Father Brown couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice, ''Inspector, what happened?''
Sullivan drummed his fingers on the table, weighing up his options. It was futile to stay quiet, the man seemed to be able to worm bloodfrom stones. So he began, in his calmest tones;
''When I was nineteen, I was still only new to the police, and I just hadn't- I hadn't gotten used to the kind of things I was dealing with. And I was... struggling, to balance work and homelife.'' He neglected to mention exactly why he didn't like going home. ''It all just got a bit much and - it was so theatrical, I got the idea from a Police Gazette, if you'd believe that. I didn't fancy anything that might make me into an ugly corpse - the vain creature that I was - so I fiddled about with the toaster until I had pulled one of the wires loose, and then I...''
An involuntary shudder rang through him.
''Then you what?'' The Father prodded.
''I put it in my mouth, and I bit down on it.''
Father Brown made a noise of revolted shock. Thoughts of copper and burning flesh were filling Sullivan's mind, the same way the current surged through it all those years ago.
''It wasn't a strong enough circuit, it didn't kill me.''
''Yes, I see that.'' Father Brown remarked, very concerned at how sarcastic he sounded.
"I mean - I had a feeling it might not be strong enough." Sullivan admitted, "But..."
"Maybe you did not really want to die?" Father Brown gently suggested.
Sullivan stayed quiet, hands clasped around his cup. Father Brown decided to gently, cautiously, resume his questions.
"What happened next?"
Sullivan shrugged. "Can't remember." He said, "I was sort of out of it, and then dad came home and found me. He couldn't get the wire out of my mouth because I'd bit it too hard, it kept jagging him. I think he had to unplug the toaster to get it out. It was all really embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?"
What sort of way was that to describe an attempt to end your life? The candid manner in which the young (and he was young) man was describing his own near death experience was very frightening.
''Yes, embarrassing.'' Sullivan continued, in a brisk, business-like manner, ''Besides, it was years ago. It was just my own teenage foolishness.''
''What did your father make of it?'' Father Brown said, ''In fact - what does he think of this? Does he know - ''
''He does not know, and it's staying that way!'' Sullivan suddenly snapped, ''I don't - it would only concern him. He's getting on, he's - I don't want to bother him like this. We don't talk about things like that.''
''Doyou have much contact with him?'' Father Brown quizzed.
''He phones, every week or so.'' Sullivan said, ''It's just trivial stuff, really. How I'm getting on at work, do I have any plans to further the family name, that kind of thing.''
''Is it just the two of you?''
''Yes. Since I was little, it was just me.''
''That must have been hard on you.''
Sullivan laughed derisively. His eyes took on a glassy look, and he shook his head slowly.
''You have no idea.'' He said softly, staring at the priest open mouthed, ''No idea at all. You try to understand but you can't - you never could. My mother died when I was eight years old, and that's when my childhood ended. I cooked, I did the housework and my schoolwork, I was so tired I couldn't sleep.
People told him what a great job he was doing, raising me all by himself, telling him what a neat polite little child I was. Stay neat, that was his motto. Stay neat, and they won't know that I lock you in the cupboard. Stay neat, and I won't try to drown you in the bath tonight. Stay neat, and they won't know that you get beaten. I wanted to die, to escape. I couldn't live like that anymore, so I tried to die, but that didn't work. So I joined the police, I tried to run away, but he'd had a turn, I couldn't just leave him. But then I realised that every time I spoke of some kind of promotion that might take me away from him, to better things - that's when he took his turns.
So I needed some other way to escape, didn't I? But that didn't work either - just like he stopped me from the toaster, he pulled me out of the gas oven as well. He wouldn't even let me die, even though there's times when he could have killed me.
I really thought this place, this village, so far away from London, it seemed like heaven. But it's the opposite! It's a trap, and I can't get out of it, I can't escape, I can't do anything right - I can't solve the murders, I couldn't save Albert, there'll come a day when I won't be able to save you.
You'll be dead, and it will be all my fault - even though it is your fault, because you're the one who goes to the crime scenes, but it's not your job. It's my job and I can't do it, I fail every time, I'm useless. I'm absolutely useless, and I don't know why you're bothering to save me, because you don't realise how badly I want to escape all this.
I hate this place - I'm drowning people, I can't escape, yet I'm lonely - I'm so, so lonely, I would have died alone only for one freak phonecall. No one ever phones me!
I went to your study to look for a gun - yes, I know you have one - and I'd finally manage to make a proper job of killing myself. Because I don't want this - I don't want to suffer, I don't want any more pain. I want it all to end, and you...''
He trailed off, staring at the man beside him.
''You haven't said anything.'' He said, ''Father, why aren't you speaking?''
Father Brown took his glasses off and cleaned them on his dressing gown.
''Speak to me,'' Sullivan pleaded, ''I've told you everything, you have to say something. Speak!'' He cried, his voice cracking, ''You've a sermon for everything, why can't you say something to me?''
''I don't see the point in speaking, when you still have so much to say.'' Father Brown said, replacing his spectacles and looking at Sullivan anew, ''The same way you have so much to live for, as I believe you're beginning to realise.''
Sullivan looked shocked.
''You knew where I kept my gun, yet you went to my bookcase. You stalled, in the hope I'd come downstairs. You didn't just look, you took out three books, and you were looking at a fourth, books you wanted to read. You want the pain to go away, but you don't want to die. You want to be saved.''
Sullivan stayed mute. Tears will flowing silently down his face.
''People want to help you, Edgar. The doctors, all of us. They're all here for you - they won't hurt you like your father did. They won't betray you or desert you. And while I can't promise you that I won't die at some point, I promise you that while I am still living - which I hope to be for a lengthy spell yet - I will do all that I can to help you. But I can only help you if you let me. Will you let me, Edgar?''
Tears still flowing and a strange feeling of relief crashing off him in waves, the Inspector nodded.