And Then The Screaming Started



It had taken almost twenty years of political trade-offs and wheeler-dealing, and had also become such an expensive project that ultimately there was no justification for not carrying it through: abandoning the extension of the Adult Education Centre would have been tantamount to pouring untold millions of ratepayers’ money into a hole in the ground, then topping it out with a cement plug and walking away.

Before the bulldozers could move in, however, the ancient, weathered sandstone which skilled hands had secured, marking the sacred ground around St. Oswald’s R.C. church were dismantled by the equally caring hands of local conservationists. They had been forced to accept the minor victory they had achieved in securing an agreement that the stones could be salvaged and used as the boundary walls of a memorial garden, once a suitable plot of land became available. However, if the local council’s track record in such matters was any sort of guide nobody was going to be tempted to hold their breath while waiting for this to happen .........

In reality, the deciding factor was finance. For some time, no burials had been possible in the pocket-handkerchief sized graveyard which skirted three sides of the church. The Archdiocese of Liverpool had been obliged to sell off large tracts of ground and other properties over the last twenty years or more simply in order to make ends meet, and as the value of the ground which the Education Authority wished to build upon had soared into the stratosphere there could only be one outcome..

Therefore, when the last of the boundary markers had been removed, numbered and stored until the jigsaw puzzle might be completed there was no further reason for delay. The JCBs were moved onto the site early one summer’s morning.

Father O’Reilly had been Parish Priest at St. Oswald’s forever. Indeed, some of the children he chatted to on his daily visits to the Primary school adjoining the church were convinced that he had been there since the church was built.

On that particular morning he was dressed as usual in his soutane, carrying a breviary and waiting at the site entrance when the Foreman arrived to open the site and begin the excavation.

“Good morning, Father”  

Joe Corrigan was a parishioner and a regular churchgoer. Once planning permission had been granted he had insisted on taking overall responsibility for the project, arguing that he was in a position to see both sides of any problems which might arise and (hopefully) reach a solution which would satisfy any objectors from either camp.

“Good morning, Joe. You’re here nice and early! What time is your team due?”

Joe looked at his watch.

“Quarter past seven: let’s say they should be here by half-past. Most of them have a quick cuppa here rather than at home.”

Father O’Reilly nodded.

“That’s what I thought. I’d like to make a final blessing over the graveyard before the diggers go in, if that’s alright with you. Will you be my altarboy one last time, Joe?”

Taken slightly off guard by the unexpected request, Joe nodded dumbly. Father O’Reilly stepped slightly to one side to reveal a thurifer and a small brass bucket containing what could only be holy water. A wand or whisk leaned against the rim of the vessel. The Parish Priest opened his breviary and indicated with a slight nod that Joe should take pick them up. Joe opened the thurifer, in which a charcoal brick nestled glowing in a thin layer of ash. Father O’Reilly added a modest amount of incense and began chanting the text he had chosen to use.

     "This is the Church's one Foundation ….
      The stone which the Builders rejected …..
      has become the cornerstone"

Joe recognised the familiar text, although he had never considered himself to be over-religious. He thought it a fitting choice for the occasion, when the foundations of a new building were to be prepared and laid.

As he finished the prayer, Fr, Reilly took the whisk from the bucket and sketched the Sign of the Cross with droplets of Holy Water before moving on to the next corner and repeating the process.

Switching between the container of water and the thurifer he continued to walk the perimeter of the cemetery, now marked by shallow trenches where the walls had been carefully dismantled. Joe followed, silent except when a response was required to a prayer. exchanging the thurifer for the holy water and sprinkler as needed, but it took less than five minutes for them to complete the circuit of the grounds which had been consecrated and used mostly for the burial of the priests who had served the parish of St. Oswald's (plus a number of local dignitaries) for over 160 years.

Both men paused, each deep in his own private thoughts and prayers. The low morning sun cast their shadows before them, rippling as they fell across the graves nearby. Traffic noise from the main road impinged gradually on Joe’s consciousness. As he returned to the “real world” he noticed the first few members of his team arriving for work, and realised that he was still holding the water font and the thurifer. He coughed gently to attract Father O’Reilly’s attention.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be off now, Father.”

Father O’Reilly smiled, and took the equipment from Joe's hands.

“Thank you, Joe: it might only be a symbolic gesture, but it wouldn’t feel ‘right’ somehow, if I hadn’t done something to mark the day ........ ”

“Father ..... ”    Joe stopped, evidently embarrassed.

Father O’Reilly made a non-committal but encouraging gesture. Joe continued:

“   ......... if it’s not too much trouble: could you, you know, bless the ... machines?”

“Sure, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been asked to “bless” a motor vehicle, or other object!” the Parish Priest replied “  ... and somehow it seems right and proper to ask for our Father’s understanding and approval for what we’re doing!”

Together they crossed to the temporary compound which had been prepared to garage JCBs and other equipment which would be needed during the rebuilding work. Father O’Reilly swung the thurifer over each vehicle before sprinkling it with holy water.

    "The Angel of the Lord came down upon Mary"  he intoned
    "And she declared, of the Holy Ghost ….."

came the automatic response: not just from Joe, but also from most of the hard-bitten, rough and ready Navvies who had gathered for the day's work.. This was followed by the familiar litany of the Angelus, the only really appropriate prayer considering the time of day.

    "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee ………"

By the time they had completed the impromptu ceremony, nearly all the navvy squad had assembled in a loose, bare-headed circle. A majority seemed to have a Catholic background, as they sketched a Cross on themselves when the final words were uttered.

Before the vehicles could be driven onto the plot, there were a number of large, old trees around the perimeter with deep, well-established roots: these had to be felled and cleared by hand. Although he was saddened by the thought of these ancient, hale, healthy survivors of nature being ripped from the ground, Father O’Reilly forced himself to stand a while and watch. He felt every day of his ninety-two years weighing upon him as the uprooting of the graveyard’s guardians went ahead. Satisfied that the workforce were carrying out their task with the respect and decorum the task merited he sighed and wandered into the church, replacing the font and thurifer in the sacristy before going into the main body of the church to prepare the altar for nine o’clock Mass.

The heavy equipment was rolled into the graveyard itself just after midday. In the coming days and weeks, topsoil was stripped off to an average depth of ten feet or more, providing a useful cash bonus which (by agreement) would also find its way into church funds. Parents arriving in mid-afternoon to collect their children after school invariably paused to view the progress of the work. Many of the children also wanted to stop and watch the big, shiny JCBs, which were particularly popular as a result of a TV cartoon series aimed at their age group about Bob the Builder. Inevitably, after a few days the novelty wore off and work progressed smoothly, although it still attracted a (somewhat diminished) appeal as a spectator sport.

In the second week, as the excavations reached the underlying clay and rock layer beneath the marketable topsoil, progress became slower. The weather held fair, ideal for digging.

On Thursday evening, just after six o’clock, the sound of the doorbell summoned Father O’Reilly to the presbytery door. He was surprised to see Joe standing there, looking agitated.

“Father, you’d better come with me straight away. You’ll need this.” He placed a spare protective helmet in the Parish Priest’s hands.

Mystified, but refraining from asking questions, he quickly shoved his feet into a pair of Wellingtons he habitually kept next to the door and followed Joe to the excavation site.

“I decided to send the lads home a few minutes early: but I’ve told them to keep their mouths shut at least until tomorrow, and I know I can trust them to keep their word.”

He took the aged priest’s arm and squatted close to the beginning of a trench which was slightly deeper than others in the immediate vicinity.

“When we began the first cut of a new level, late this afternoon, we came across ...... well, look for yourself. Is it ... what I think it is?”

The scoop of one of the JCBs had made a clean initial cut in the side of the trench. In the process it had exposed unmistakeable evidence of human remains. Perhaps to be expected in a graveyard, but not in such quantities ….. and there was something else – or, rather, there wasn't ……... Father Reilly had no expertise either as an archaeologist or in the building trade, but he saw at once that there was no evidence whatsoever of any attempt to inter them with any sort of dignity. iThere was a clear, total absence of anything resembling coffins. The skeletons – there appeared at first glance to be literally hundreds of them – lay as if casually thrown together, or dumped with indecent haste, denied a proper Christian burial.

Crossing himself automatically, and almost as a reflex action repeating the action over the exposed remains, Father O’Reilly peered closer.

“Look at this skull: it's so small! Joe, these are surely the remains of ... children, maybe infants!”

Joe nodded soberly.

“That’s what I thought too, Father! But there are so many of them .......... !”

Together they worked their way along the higher edge of the trench, inspecting the evidence without disturbing it further. Tiny bones and crania were indications of the burial of a considerable number of small children. No attempt had been made to inter them individually.

“We’ll have to inform the authorities” said Father O’Reilly “ ... though it's clear that these bones have been lying here for years. If they prove to be evidence suggesting that a crime has been
committed, it was many years ago: but there can be no more excavations until further notice. I’ll check parish records to see if there's any information at all, but there’s no sign of any coffins, so I don’t expect there will be any records of their burials.”

“What do I tell the Crew?”

“Tell them to stay at home tomorrow. And while you’re at it: tell them they’re to keep their mouths shut if they expect to remain on full pay until this is sorted out ....... !”

Fortunately, the new trench was on the side of the graveyard furthest from the adjoining main road and inquisitive eyes. However the tentage which SOCO erected the following day over and around the tiny church cemetery was impossible to miss. Assuming a crime had been committed (and this seemed quite possible) it was also certain that the perpetrators were themselves long departed this life, but as far as the police were concerned, it was still a Crime Scene and had to be investigated.

The forensics team was not bound by trade union agreements concerning working hours, and had the added advantage of being able to work in shifts throughout the day and night. The downside of this, of course, was the fact that their interest was in sifting all the evidence for the least indication which might reveal some significant fact. Progress was therefore considerably slower than the contractors (and their paymasters) would have liked.

By the weekend, a total of 53 crania had been discovered, and the ages of the children estimated as between 2 months and 3 years. A wide range of tests were being carried out on the bones to discover if there was any indication of a common cause of death.

With the assistance of one of his young assistant priests, Father Reilly searched both physical records and every possible Internet source for any information which might have some bearing on their discovery. Information was harder to come by as they dug deeper and deeper into history,

"Was there another church here, before this one was built, Father?"

The young trainee priest, Brother Melody, wasn't familiar with hand-written record cards, and had to depend more and more on Fr. Reilly's experience with filing systems as they delved further back through the layers of time. He was more comfortable with computer software and his skills had been vital in the initial stages, helping Fr. Reilly to get through their early research, but church records which pre-dated the Industrial Revolution called for the older man's skills.

Fr.Reilly paused a moment and looked across the room.

"There's always been a church here, and as far as I know it's always been dedicated to St, Oswald. I remember seeing a sketch of how the building before this one looked – though obviously that was from a time before cameras and photographs, so I couldn't say just how accurate that was! Is there a particular reason for your question?"

"I'm assuming that the bodies we found have been there since before the church was built."

"In 1840. Yes, that's fair enough, I suppose. And so ………?"

"So, I'm wondering. We know that many families came here and settled in Liverpool after the Irish Potato Famine in 1845. But if you check the timeline on the Internet pages we looked at …."

He refreshed the page on the PC

" ….. you can see that the crops had been disastrous for several years before that – all the way back to the start of the 1830s, really!"

"The results of the lab tests have confirmed that the bones are definitely from before the church was built, so that fits! Father, it's quite possible these poor children were simply too weak to survive – and their families, tragically, too poor to afford a proper burial!"

"But there's so many of them, Brother! And all buried together? That can only mean ……..!"

"That they all died at the same time? From something as simple as a child illness, perhaps? Because there was nothing like a National Health Service at the time: an outbreak of measles could have been just as deadly as bubonic plague would be today!"

The two priests stared at each other across the table, both attempting to make sense of the overall picture which the results of their researches strongly suggested. It was certainly true that a large number of Irish families had settled close to St. Oswald's church over the years, mainly because they had used all their money and could not afford passage onwards to the New World. This was reflected in the names of many of the local roads: Killarney Road, Donegal, Enfield, Ulster, Durban, Munster ….. the list went on and on. Was it possible that these unfortunate families had fled the grinding poverty and inevitable starvation of the Potato Famine in Ireland, only to see their children, their hopes for a better future, taken so cruelly from them by an illness to which they had no natural immunity?

"I'd like to go out and speak to the officer in charge of the investigations, before we close the house. Do you want to come?"

Brother Melody nodded, and went through to the kitchen to find a torch. There was one in the drawer, but the batteries were dead. Sighing, he took a candle and set it in an old-fashioned steel-and-glass lantern which was there mostly as a decoration, but got used from time to time – generally as a 'stage prop' in Junior School Nativity plays.

Fr. Reilly was waiting for him at the front door of the sacristy, breviary in hand. As he followed the Parish Priest out of the door Brother Melody stretched one hand to pluck the housekey from its hook. His sleeve knocked against a small bell which the housekeeper used occasionally to announce visitors: as it rolled to the edge of the shelf and threatened to fall on the floor he grabbed it quickly. Something prompted him to place it in his pocket rather than back on the shelf: he hurried to catch up with Fr. Reilly, and a tiny, amused voice at the back of his mind informed him that, between them, they now had "bell, book and candle" with them   ……….

The two priests approached with meticulous care ensuring they didn't disturb the forensic specialists in their work, or dislodge a possible shard of evidence on the scene. As they stopped to watch, the senior SOCO officer concentrated on easing a stubborn rock from the lower end of the latest area under examination. Without warning it gave way under the sustained pressure being applied. It popped out on a wave of noxious air and flew across the trench like a champagne cork at a social soirée.

The four-man CSI team reeled, gagging on the poisonous fumes: the youngest (and least experienced) of the team doubled over, vomiting violently.

And then the screaming started: hundreds of high-pitched childrens’ voices, howling in terror and pain. Many of them were quite simply too young to be able to articulate clear, coherent speech, and must have emanated from children who had died before beginning to string together simple sentences. The banshee wail screeched several times up and down the entire range of sounds which the human voice is capable of producing, a wordless cacophony of sobbing sound. The howl settled to a keening background, a heartbreaking accompaniment to a single word which emerged and could be identified, the word which comes most naturally to the lips of any child in pain or distress:

“Mummmmmmm – meeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!”

As the police officers doubled up, gasping for breath in the noxious air, Fr. Reilly strode forward. He seemed unafraid: and there was an air of command, of authority about him which nobody would have suspected that he possessed.

"Brother Melody! Raise the lantern above us: take out the little bell – the one which I noticed you catch in the hallway as it fell!"

He opened his breviary, to a page which he had used so many times over the years that the book fell open on the text he needed without him needing to search for it.

"De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine:
Domine, exaudi vocem meam."

"Out of the depths I have cried to thee, O Lord:
Lord, hear my voice. ….. "

The cacophony of screams showed no sign of diminishing in intensity or in volume: in fact, Brother Melody was convinced that they were beginning to assume a physical presence hovering on the very edge of coalescing into something almost tangible, visible. It reminded him, perhaps illogically, of nature programmes on TV showing dust devils spinning across open deserts.

Fr. Reilly continued to stand stock still, unafraid, totally in command of the chaos which threatened to engulf them all. He continued to chant from the Prayer for the Dead:

"Fiant aures tuae intendentes:
in vocem deprecationis meae.
Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: qui sustinebit?"

"Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.
If thou wilt mark iniquities, O Lord,
Lord, who shall endure it?"

Was the not-quite-nebulous suggestion of a spiralling column of almost-visible voices spinning more slowly? Brother Melody had the definite impression that it was: at the same time, he convinced himself that it was condensing, solidifying, hovering just off the ground, immediately in front of the Parish Priest.

Father Reilly's voice took on another, deeper, more commanding tone befitting his new-found authority. A spot of light glowed with incandescent potency on the open breviary which he still held on the palm of his left hand.

The page remained pristine, undamaged. The glow spread rapidly over the priest's hand, flowing up his arm, engulfing his whole body as he sang on. His voice now had the power, beauty and harmony of a dozen Welsh male voice choirs and seemed to feed the fires which danced and shimmered around him without damaging so much as a thread of his clothing, nor a single hair on his head.

The vortex was now almost still-standing before the ancient priest of a thousand voices, seeming to be completely under his control. He spread his arms in a universal gesture of welcome: it approached him, slowly, as if it were a living, breathing entity capable of independent thoughts and actions.

The sighs of childlike voices which had sobbed and wept in terror moments earlier altered as Fr. Reilly reached out and welcomed the lost souls into his arms. The fear was gone. A single word was clearly heard, sung rhythmically over and over again.

The single word was a pæn of pleasure, an expression of joy on the lips of children suddenly released from many years of torment, able to smile at last

"Mummy, Mummy!" they chorused, tears and terror now replaced by love and laughter. Fr. Reilly leaned once more towards the glowing column, which brightened to an impossible climax as his hands appeared to reach out and embrace it,

" Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.
"Gloria Patri, et Filii, ...…."

"And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son ….. "

The old priest's voice continued to be heard as he stepped, apparently unafraid, into the glowing centre of the vortex and completed the hymn celebrating the triumph of victory over mere death. The spinning, which had slowed to a standstill, began once more. The brightness of its inner glow increased to a point at which it was almost too painful to look upon, yet so beautiful it was impossible to look away.

Suddenly and without warning, the spinning top cone reversed its shape. Instead of hovering with its narrowest point almost touching the ground, it became a tall, slender javelin ready to hurl itself at the stars. Brother Melody heard the last line of the hymn clearly as Fr. Reilly's final words leapt skywards within the flaming spear, exultant, unafraid, rejoicing. At last, the lost children would be coming home to their Father.

    "Et in sæcula, sæculorum. Amen!"

    "For ever and ever, Amen!"