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Sabat had once been in the priesthood； the very thought had Bishop Boyce biting hard on his cigar。 There was nothing Christian about this guy。 Rumour； again； had it that Sabat had undergone a youthful homosexual experience which had driven him to the Church to seek repentance。 Instead he'd found a burning hatred and had cast off the cloth in favour of an SAS uniform； a potential killer seeking a means by which to mit legalised murder。
There'll be a fee；' Sabat's eyes hardened like chips of dark granite。 An oblique jibe that he savoured。
'I rather thought there would be；' the bishop regarded him coldly。 'I've never had to pay an exorcist before。'
'It might not be a straightforward exorcism。'
'What d'you mean？'
'You haven't told me about Bishop Avenson；' Sabat inclined his head towards the oil…painting which hung to his left。 'Whatever's going on it goes back as far as 1742； maybe a lot further。 Avenson was found all burned up； just like Owen。 And your last exorcist was discovered with an obsession for bonfires。 We're not up against just an ordinary spirit。 Whatever it is； it's dangerous and I don't risk my life； maybe worse； for nothing。'
Boyce started visibly。 Damn this Sabat fellow； he'd been researching the history of St Monica's。 The prying type。
'I didn't think Avenson's fate could possibly have anything to do with what happened in 1982； nearly two hundred and fifty years later。'
'Nothing can be overlooked。 I'd say there's a direct link。 Tell me； Bishop； this guy Cleehopes； what had he been burning on the bonfire？'
'Just grass and weeds。 We had a mowing contractor in to tidy up the churchyard about a fortnight ago and he'd left a pile of cuttings。 Cleehopes apparently set fire to them。'
'Nothing else？'
'Not as far as I know。 The police sifted through the ashes but they never told me they'd found anything。'
'Well； I'll check with Groome anyway。 Now； the fee； Bishop。 I work for five hundred a week plus expenses。'
'Daylight robbery；' Boyce's thick lips tightened； the end of his cigar glowing red。
'Not when you take the risks I take。 However； if you think I'm too expensive 。 。 。
The bishop pulled a drawer open； took out the diocesan expenses cheque book。 His orders had e from a higher authority； from Westminster itself where he had been informed that Sabat had worked for the Church before。 It was neither Bishop Boyce's own money nor his place to argue。 Hastily he scribbled out a cheque； tore the perforation and slid the oblong of yellow paper across the desk。 T just hope you get it all settled up in a week； Sabat。'
'So do I；' Sabat smiled humourlessly beneath his heavy moustache。 'I'll need acmodation； too。'
'You can have the use of the curate's house；' the bishop's eyes hooded。 'And I'll be glad if you'll be as unobtrusive as possible。 The newspapers have gone to town on this business and this kind of publicity doesn't do the Church any good。'
'You won't even know I'm around；' Sabat smiled again and turned on his heel。
After the door had closed behind his visitor； Bishop Boyce drew heavily on his cigar。 Sabat made him uneasy； the tall dark man wasn't like other men； more like a hunting beast of prey and you just hoped it wasn't you he was after。 Because if he was he'd run you down for sure。
There was a frown on Sabat's face as he made his way through the palace to where his silver Daimler stood sedately。 He didn't like Boyce and that wasn't just because the man was a 。hypocritical bishop。 He had the kind of intuition that Sabat had learned not to ignore in the past； inbuilt alarm systems in his own body sounding a warning。 He would not ignore them。
It was that painting hanging in Boyce's study that he could not get off his mind。 Bishop Avenson … a portrait of evil。 God； the likeness was uncanny； enough to have every nerve in Mark Sabat's body tensing like steel cables at full stretch。 The features； the expression； so reminiscent of his own brother Quentin； the most evil man this century！
Sabat slid behind the wheel of the Daimler and sat there staring across the palace gardens； unseeing except in his own mind。 Even now he thought he could hear Quentin's voice somewhere in the recesses of his own brain。 'I'm not dead； Mark Sabat。 Still I live on； for I am you！'
Mark Sabat felt the clamminess of cold sweat； his shirt clinging to his body； and in his mind he saw a wooded mountainside； a wide clearing which even the birds and beasts of the wild shunned。 For it was here that his own brother Quentin had chosen his final refuge； a bastion of evil in the mountains。 He had been known throughout the continents of the world as 'Satan's henchman'； pursued by the bined forces of the law who secretly hoped that they would not catch up with him； relentlessly hunted by Mark Sabat。 And it was in this very clearing that the final confrontation had taken place。
Sabat shuddered； recalled how his own extraordinary powers of exorcism had been overshadowed by those of the most evil man known to mankind。 Exhumed corpses lay beside the three open graves； further proof of what Quentin was about to do； a master of voodoo； a houngan in exile attempting to raise his own followers from the dead； an invincible army of zombies to do his bidding。
Sabat smelled again the cloying putrefaction of open graves； experienced once more his own utter despair when he had fallen into one； looked up and seen his brother preparing to pulverise him with a woodcutter's axe； the stench of burned cordite； the …38 which Sabat always carried bucking in his hand； Quentin falling； writhing his death throes on top of him； the final shot blasting that awful skull； stringing blood and brains on the damp walls of the grave like an old man's mucus。
It should have ended there and then with Sabat clambering out of that oblong hole； walking dazedly back down the mountainside； his mission acplished。 But it hadn't。 Somehow Quentin's own soul had merged with his own； good and evil in continual conflict inside a living entity； a man possessed fighting within himself for survival。 And still fighting。
And that was how it remained。 Sabat； one…time priest； latterly an SAS agent； until his indiscretion with a Colonel's blonde wife who wore black boots and liked to watch her lovers cringe before her； had resulted in his recent return to civilian life and now found himself the victim of a dual role。 At certain times the evil in him was too strong to resist and Quentin Sabat lived again。 On other occasions the forces of evil were thwarted by Mark Sabat's own ruthlessness； his own desire for revenge for what they had done to him。
The pendulum swung and Sabat could never be sure of himself； an exorcist with unbelievable psychic powers which might one day prove to be his own undoing。 Quentin had been silent for too long and now it seemed that he had been stirred by the sight of a face from the past； the cruel features of Bishop Avenson！
Sabat eased the car into the flow of traffic； could still hear Quentin's laughter somewhere far away。 Then he straightened up； gripped the wheel； and his jaw tightened。 Hell； if it was a fight the powers of evil wanted then it was a fight they'd get。 He felt the forting weight of the …38 in its holster beneath his right armpit； a boost to his confidence although its effectiveness was often limited against the foes he came up against。 Any weapon was better than none。
He drove steadily once he was clear of the city traffic； the tinted windscreen shielding his eyes from the rays of the dying sun in the west。 He checked the time： six…twenty。 There was no hurry。 Tonight he would install himself in his new headquarters and tomorrow he would begin his investigations。 To have rushed straightaway to the church without having first ascertained the full strength of the enemy would have been foolhardy indeed。 Time was on his side and the Church were footing the bill。 Sabat reckoned they owed him that。
An hour later he eased the Daimler into the drive of the small modern detached house on the outskirts of the village。 Once； only a decade ago； this village had had a resident parson but the Church hierarchy had decreed that the upkeep of a parsonage with dwindling congregations was superfluous。 So the impressive black and white building had been sold for an extortionate sum and a succession of curates had taken up residence in this modest new abode。 They had moved on to other places but it was anybody's guess where the Reverend Philip Owen had gone； Sabat reflected。 Something from out of the shadows had claimed his soul and Sabat must be on his guard to make sure that his own did not follow。 Quentin's influence was a dangerous weakness； the chink in his armour。
He let himself into the house and inspected it from top to bottom。 Neat and economically furnished； a typical bachelor abode。 Sabat laughed to himself； after all； he was a bachelor and in those few moments he was aware of a familiar sensation beginning to dominate the lower regions