‘You’ve gotten old,’ David mumbled through a busted lip.

  Christopher nodded. He didn’t need to be told by anyone, nor did he need to look into a mirror to know that; he could feel it. It was deep in his bones, in every step. His body liked to remind him every chance it got, even in the middle of the night when he got up to take a piss. His once sandy blonde hair was falling out white if not for the yellow tinge of cigarette stains. It even affected his work; what were dexterous fingers now trembled without any cause. He was sure that if he did see his reflection his face would be of a sad old, old man full of wrinkles.

  ‘You don’t look too great yourself,’ Christopher reminded him. David was sitting broken and bloody in a jail cell after all.

  David grunted and Christopher lay his hand back onto the disgraced bishop. That gold and green light came pouring out of his fingers, solving all of David’s problems except the ones inside his mind. How old would I be? He wondered as he worked. The question had two parts: the first is how old was he physically and the second was how old was he truly; how many years had he lived between Earth and Purgatory? Christopher pulled the little silver flask from his coat pocket and before he had a chance to think about it and hesitate - which would make it worse - he pushed the neck to his mouth and took a swig of hot fire. My body must be at least seventy, more likely around eighty. On the other hand, I died at thirty-two and would have spent no more than fifteen years here. He smiled to himself. So I’m a fifty-year-old in an eighty-year-old body. The years have not been kind to my looks.

  ‘The church pays you well,’ David said, ‘I should know, I have managed the books. You should use some of it to de-age a bit, you will die of old age if you aren’t careful.’

  Christopher tried to laugh but it came out broken and scratchy. For a doctor he loved the cancer sticks. ‘Isn’t the whole point of Purgatory to repent and die? That’s what the church preaches anyway.’

  David looked ready to rebut, but cast his eyes downward.

  ‘Now turn to your left so I can keep on with my work.’

  Christopher healed the bruises around David’s body, all of them shallow and cheap. The dark welts shading back into David’s light brown. Finally he lay two fingers over the cut lip. There was something of a memory here and David knew it too. Back from when we were… Christopher hesitated when they made eye-contact, but not for long. He was older now, and maturity came with age. That golden-green light mended the flesh and the purple scab flaked off falling to the damp floor. Pushing David’s arms out of the way, Christopher checked his body one last time before deciding his work was done. David was less happy; he looked pouty like a child. Sitting shirtless and dirty in his cell underneath the cathedral of Iscariot. Who would have known there was a labyrinth under here? They sat directly under the great prayer room that held congregations of singing choirs and priests who preached of humility in their gold lined robes. Those who are over a hundred looking younger than twenty.

  The church got Christopher to do plenty of jobs for them. Christopher tried to avoid them, his talents were better suited elsewhere. However, often he had no choice in the matter; they had their methods. Put simply, Christopher was the best healer in Kerioth. Healing magic relied on intimate knowledge of the human body and back on Earth Christopher was the greatest surgeon in Sweden. That arrogance of course led to his greatest sin, but is the purpose of Purgatory not to repent? Being the best meant the Church forced him to their petty jobs. These jobs often required nothing more than a bandage - meanwhile people were dying on the streets, people he could help, people who couldn't pay and were therefore “worthless”. The streets were old, like Christopher, and forgotten too.

  Christopher had healed David after the accident where that poor boy Leo was lost. Christopher had pulled an all-nighter fixing internal wounds in both David and Marie, but while under investigation for the past few days David had continually gotten himself bruised down here. The guards said, “He tripped.” But today would be his last.

  ‘I have some good news for you,’ Christopher said.

  David looked up and the hope in his eyes set a small tremble through Christopher’s heart. These past years it was easier to believe David had no humanity when Christopher pretended he didn’t exist, but now confronted face to face, it was more difficult. There is some good in him, one voice said. He killed a boy while creating a weapon of mass destruction, another said.

  ‘Your case has been reviewed by arch-bishop Suraj. He wanted to give the news himself, but he was pre-occupied and asked me to pass it along while I was down here. You have been determined as not at fault. As such, you are free to leave and will remain a Bishop of the Church.’

  He jumped up, eyes wide with shock and grabbed Christopher by the coat with both hands. ‘You’re serious? I thought I was dead.’

  Christopher winced away and David let him go. ‘You are dead, but yes I am serious.’

  He looked ready to kiss the doctor on the lips. And what would I do then? Christopher tried not to show amusement on his face.

  ‘What about the project?’ David asked.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The project! The weapon. The machine-gun.’

  Christopher grimaced in disgust. ‘You saw for yourself, it exploded.’

  ‘No!’ David shouted, his voice echoing off the dark, stone walls. ‘That’s not what I meant. Is the project still going ahead?’

  ‘David, you can’t be serious.’

  ‘I am serious,’ he said.

  Can't you see that all it brings is more death? We live in a world that needs more peace, not another war. If only the Church could see that. Words that Christopher would not dare say aloud here where the guards still lurked. They stood behind the iron bars dressed scalp to heel in their red robes. The so-called Crimson Clergy; a band of cruel men and women who would use any excuse to give a beating and were capable of little more speech than saying “he tripped.” Yet even still, Christopher felt sorry for them for a reason he couldn’t properly articulate. Like children who tortured bugs they found in their backyard only because their older siblings taught them it was the correct thing to do. Because they were taught the bugs deserved it.

  ‘I believe that Aaron, the business man, is taking over the project along with the metal-working guild.’

  David scoffed. ‘Aaron? Like he has any clue! He won’t be able to replicate our genius, not without me or Marie helping him.’ A smug grin settled on his face. It said I won you idiot.

  Christopher hated to burst bubbles. ‘Marie is working with him.’

  ‘She wouldn’t’

  Shrugging in response, Christopher turned around and stepped out of the cell. ‘Ask her yourself, this isn’t my fight.’ Lord knows I’ve already had my fair share with you.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  ‘I need to keep working on that project, I need to fix it.’

  ‘Why would you even want to go near that thing after what it did?’

  ‘I need to set things right. I need to make sure Leo didn’t die in vain.’ David clutched his chest like his heart was aching, but Christopher knew better. All the healing magic in Purgatory could not mend shattered pride. That is what it was, shattered pride. David told Christopher - and maybe he truly believed - that it was a broken heart, but Christopher knew his old friend better; it was pride, it was arrogance, it was egotism. Now it lay in a crumbled heap and Christopher was powerless before it. Not that he would help even if he could.

  Christopher knew arrogance better than anyone. Because I am the best.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘If I were you, I would stay far away from that line of work, but suit yourself, I need to go. I have another appointment.’

  ‘Wait,’ David said. ‘Would you like to catch up at some point? I mean chat somewhere that isn’t a dungeon and-’ he looked down at himself, ‘when I am dressed properly?’

  Christopher raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know, but for old times’ sake?’

  Christopher didn’t respond, he didn’t really know how.

  ‘I’ll take that for a yes then.’ David said. ‘I’ll see you at the Flaming Flamingo tomorrow night?’

  There is still some humanity left in him. ‘Sure… yeah. I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Great.’ David said and stepped out of his cell. He shuffled by the motionless red guards and their hidden eyes and turned left towards the exit of the catacombs.

  Christopher turned right, heading deeper.

  ‘Where are you going?’ David asked.

  ‘I have another appointment.’

  Two guards flanked either side of Christopher. Their swirling red robes fluttered behind them as they guided him deeper into the dungeon under the cathedral, leaving David behind. He would have questions later, but now was not the time. Christopher had never come down here until a week ago, yet here he was seeing his second customer. This one he had to prepare his mind for so as they marched down the dim tunnel he fished for his flask again. It was half-full and when he raised it to his lips. It stank. He gagged before tasting it. It smelt like cleaning supplies and his body was physically repulsed by it, yet his mind craved. He tipped it and his tongue fought against him, but he gulped. Then he drank again, the second swig more painful. Empty and useless, it was slipped back into his coat, Christopher's mind swimming already.

  The dungeon was made of the same dark bricks as the cathedral above and the dungeon was scarcely lit by torches that flickered from the walls. They passed many cells, most empty. Reaching the end of the first floor was a single cell that held a man in priestly robes. His hair was crazed wires that sprouted from his temples and his head jittered, following their movements, but he said nothing as the entourage passed by his cell.

  Descending the stairs there was an invisible barrier. One of the guards placed their hand on Christopher’s shoulder and he was able to step through. When he did, the temperature dropped. It was cold below the city and the doctor was glad he wore his coat, but he rubbed his shoulders regardless and his breath cast misty plumes in front of his face.

  The air was stagnant and musty, filled with the scent of human waste and rotting skin. The cells he passed were packed to the brim. The eyes inside tracked him and pleaded for mercy. They huddled together for warmth as they had been given no clothes and the only heat came from dim candles out of reach. They, like the man above, made no sounds. It was like they were mute, tongues ripped out, but the reality was they were scared, and with good reason. Christopher knew what the Crimson clergy did to those who cried out. A smart prisoner was a silent prisoner. Yet there was a sound. At the end of the hall came muffled screaming and the sound of a beating. At each thump and hit, the sullen occupants winced as if telepathically they all felt it too. In response came a blood curdling cry. The cry however, sounded less in pain than it did in pure, red rage. Christopher thought he could hear ‘I’LL KILL YOU’ muffled through the prisoner’s gag.

  There, my patient sings for me.

  The sound only amplified as the doctor approached. He felt for his flask before remembering it was empty and wishing he brought a second. It was these sounds that kept him up at night. It was these sounds he had heard every, single, day for the past week.

  Finally, that cursed, blood-stained cell came into view. Behind the iron bars was a single prisoner. Each of his limbs were strung by chains thicker than Christopher’s arm and joined with heavy shackles that glowed a fierce purple. The boy wore black boxers and nothing else, his entire body was covered with welts, cuts and scars that put any beating David had in his entire life put to shame. A red guard kicked the prisoner's knee and it buckled in the wrong direction. He cried out a curse and was subsequently punched in his gut, forcing all the air out of his scrawny body.

  ‘OUT!’ Christopher yelled. He was here because he was the best healer there was and the prisoner must live. ‘Get out you animals! Torture time ended thirty minutes ago!’

  Reluctantly, the crimson clergy began to filter out of the cell uttering no word of apology. A dirty mop of brown hair hung over the boy's eyes and a spit soaked gag was shoved deep into his mouth to prevent him biting his own tongue. He was to remain here for eternity. Death would be his escape and no matter what, for the sake of all Purgatory, Alek Howell must live. The boy, Christopher reminded himself. It was easier to think of him as the boy. He who would bring death and destruction to Purgatory if he escaped or died. So the doctor must work.

  Christopher knelt before the boy chained to the four corners of the cell. He started with the knee, pulling it back into the right position before pouring his healing lifespan into it. The boy didn’t talk as he worked. His breathing was heavy and Christopher watched him fall in and out of consciousness several times throughout the appointment. When he woke, Christopher poured water through his lips, but the boy winced in pain just swallowing.

  ‘Swallow deep,’ Christopher told him. ‘This will be your only drink until I see you tomorrow.’

  The prisoner did just that, before the doctor replaced the gag. It was too risky to remove the gag without him around as who else could mend a severed tongue? And who cared?

  The torture sessions were meant to be “extracting information,” but Christopher wondered if the boy would be able to answer anything coherently. Christopher thought it more likely they were to keep the kid so crushed he couldn’t even think about escaping after the incident last week. However, that was not his business; his was to heal.

  An hour later, and what felt like a year of lifespan, Christopher stepped back from the boy, dirty and sweaty, but clean as soap compared to the boy. Someone should really wash him, if at least for the smell. Christopher wouldn’t, it wasn’t his job. The doctor gave the boy one final check all over. He was careful to listen to the kid’s breath to make sure there were no broken ribs, puncturing his lungs. How many ribs have I healed on him alone? Too many.

  The boy seemed fine, as well as he could be. Skinny as a stick and as unkempt as a boar, but he would live another day as long as the red guards didn’t go overboard. More overboard than usual. The way the boy screamed at them, or tried to with the gag in his mouth, didn’t help him in his beatings.

  Christopher bent down again and slapped the kid’s cheek. He didn’t respond, any sane man would call him dead - and in a sense they’d be right - but the doctor slapped again, harder. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, hazel brown and lost in a dream. Christopher slapped him again to bring some alertness. It worked.

  ‘Wake up.’

  The kid looked plenty awake, but drained of all emotion. He seemed to have bottomless rage when Christopher approached his cell every morning, but when the guards left it all emptied.

  ‘Food?’ He asked through the muffled gag.

  Christopher shook his head. ‘Not today, tomorrow.’

  There were strict rules in place to keep him low in energy, just enough to survive, yet somehow, sometimes the boy seemed high on sugar and cocaine.

  The kid closed his eyes, but Christopher wasn’t done. He slapped him again.

  ‘Listen to me,’ the doctor said. ‘You have to stop antagonizing them. They will still beat you, but it will be softer. Be quiet, be meek.’ Alek looked at him the way a meat cow looks at a rancher during sunset. ‘Accept your beating and they won’t hit so hard.’

  His chains rattled, but of course, the boy went nowhere. So he closed his eyes again and Christopher stood up. I’m not saying it for your sake kid. I just don’t want so much work. The doctor left the cell and a red guard turned the lock. As Christopher was walking away he though he heard the boy call out, but he never stopped, never looked back. It sounded like “Thank you doctor.”