The Secret Stead is the pen name of a UK-based writer and
This novella contains scenes dealing with violence, profanity, sexual and drug abuse, which may cause some readers distress. Please be warned. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. It is a work of cautionary fiction.
The Test of O'Malley | (I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener — John 15:1)
  Chapt 3 | Contents | Chapt 5   |
aba Mamba was watching Caleb prepare to ambush Dante, from afar.
No one had asked him. He no longer wore the crown. But they had come to his spot in the middle of the day, to cause mischief when none was necessary. He tried not to think of his dwindling profits, as he hunched his large shoulders in frustration.
Caleb stood with three knights, waiting at the far right corner of the park's entrance, before its wide walkway led out to its main part. They were by the public toilets that were no longer used by the public. It used to be a popular haunt of the peados, until the council decided to board it up after a well-known councilman was caught with a ten year old boy in there. By the boy's father.
Baba Mamba had broken into it to use in place of the Coke n' Poke, after--
He paused, mid-thought.
His mind went to his former right-hand man often. Too often, for his liking.
He had been under orders. What could he have done differently? He would have been made an example of, like Angelo, or worse.
But he hadn't realised what a good friend he was, until he left. That was life. You couldn't tell how much you missed someone, until they were gone.
Don't do this, for the sake of your own soul.
Angelo had been right about that. It had changed him.
Angelo had been right about Dante, too. That he'd rather die than become a Caleb.
He will die before he let's you turn him into that squealing pig.
That's what Angelo had said.
Then he will die.
That's what Baba Mamba had said.
But now he didn't want Dante to die at the hands of the Bull.
Sometimes, you could tell how much you'd miss someone before they were gone.
He watched Caleb, Danny B and a few others don their balaclavas and take out their replica guns. Laughing and giggling, like it was a game.
Baba Mamba felt embarrassed at the display he saw in front of him. If they thought this performance at intimidation was going to work on the Dante he had come to know, then the fools were going to be in for a surprise.
But he watched.
And he waited.
What else could he do?
ante loved the park because of the trees.
He inherited his love of trees from his father, watching him tend to his fruit trees in their little garden back in Sicily. But when he found this city park, he had been overwhelmed by the variety and splendour of them. To Dante it seemed as though England had the most beautiful trees in the world. His favourite was the oak, he decided; tall, unbowed, a strong symbol to the resilience of life.
He had always believed trees were God's living creatures, and he felt connected to his Saviour when he would come of a day to ground himself in their knotted bark and leafed beauty now, to thank them for providing food and shelter for God's other creatures, big and small. He used to speak to his father's olive and fig trees, too, as he watered them. Rooted in God's truth, watered with His grace, they grew, silent in their wisdom, and gave up their bounty as reward for his care.
In the park, Dante had found a special grove of trees in which to sit and enjoy the shade, and to try and learn the benefits of their silence. He never knew he talked out loud to himself too much until he moved to Downland, but it was his way of coping, of talking to God. Here, in this, the first temple of the early Christians, he felt maybe he could talk to Him without being judged as weird.
As long as you kept the Church in your heart, you could pray anywhere. This was his church, too, as much as the one built by men. For this was one built by God.
It was the one he had told Mr Dara he was going to.
It was a short walk from the pub to the main entrance of the Racehound.
He was almost there.
ara watched Dante walk to what looked like a park entrance. The gates were made of wrought iron, painted black with a large sign overhead with the name of the park.
The Racehound Tracks.
Funny name for a park, he thought.
From a safe distance, he saw Dante enter the gates, talking to himself.
Funny sort of guy, he thought.
But he couldn't stop himself from following this little thing. He had given Cillian some quick excuse and left the pub a few minutes after Dante.
He crossed over the main street, and headed in Dante's direction.
aleb had to force himself to keep his erection from showing in his pants. Boys in balaclavas just did something to him.
Guns, too. He looked at the replica in his hand. It sure looked like the real thing. Maybe he could get the geriatric to use it in him instead of the zimmer frame later tonight.
Danny B waved the suitcase he was holding, that they'd stolen it from someone's skip. "Fucking heavy this."
"Yeah," Caleb grinned. "I put a few bricks in it. Should knock that fucker out."
"How the fuck am I gonna swing it, when it weighs a ton?"
"Then just drop it on his foot, and land him one with your fist. Improvise."
Danny B didn't look as though he could improvise three words into a short sentence, but said, "Ah, alright. Yeah."
Caleb nodded to the other two loyal knights to be on guard. The four of them should be more than enough for the freak.
Then, Dante appeared.
They huddled together, muttering and staring at him.
Dante ignored them, and walked past.
"Oi!" Caleb shouted, disguising his voice, but emboldened by the anonymity the balaclava gave him. "You!"
Dante acted as though he hadn't heard them and continued out to the main park.
Caleb was confused. They all were. What the fuck was up with this man?
But, suddenly, in a flash of insightful inspiration, Caleb knew what would work. He took the balaclava off.
"Hey, Dante! How are you? Long time no see."
Dante stopped. Turned around. And slowly made his way back to them.
"Caleb," was all he said.
They stood there, and for a single moment, without expecting to, Caleb remembered the kindness he had been shown in Dante's kitchen.
But only for a moment.
He indicated to Danny B, who dropped the suitcase on the floor, and decided to improvise with a punch to the side of Dante's face.
Dante didn't move out of the way. He didn't flinch. The left side of his temple took the punch as though it were a gentle touch, and he remained where he stood.
Looking bored, and his eyes remaining on Caleb, Dante asked, "Well, now what?"
"We're gonna cut you up and scatter your parts all over the city, so they'll never find you," Danny B said, warming to his newly found improvisation skills.
Dante said nothing, showed no emotion, but calmly turned around to continue on his way.
The four of them looked at each other, more confused than ever. This wasn't the reaction they were expecting.
Caleb screamed out in anger, desperate to get some kind of reaction out of the freak. "Don't you want to pay me back for what I did to you?"
Dante stopped again. He turned around. "Not anymore. I have remade my pact. But I also realise I don't need to raise a hand to you. You raise a hand to yourself every day."
"What the fuck you on about, you fucking weirdo?" Caleb shouted back, but he knew what Dante meant.
Deep down, where he had buried the child his brother had murdered, his heart knew.
"With the poison you take and the poison you have become, Caleb. You hurt yourself more than I ever could."
Caleb's rage returned in a way he had never felt.
Fuck the Bull, I'm going to kill this faggot now, he thought.
He kicked open the briefcase, and took out a brick. Went charging at Dante, like a bull himself.
Dante didn't move.
As Caleb approached, he raised the brick to bring it down on Dante's head.
And then he froze. Saliva dripping from his puffed lips. His red eyes, red mad. But he couldn't get his hand to bring the brick down and smash the faggot's brains in.
Dante sighed, and gently took the brick from Caleb's hand.
"Enough, now. I will not harm someone as weak as you. It would shame me, son," Dante said.
"Son? I ain't your fucking son!"
"No, you are not, but it is how I always saw you. I just didn't know how to say it without the hammer in my tongue. And in my world, fathers do not sleep with their sons."
Caleb's rage dissipated at that, as though he finally understood Dante's rejection of his clumsy advances. But it quickly turned to scorn. Derek was the father he had always wanted. Not this freak that everyone hated. He wanted someone everyone looked up to, not down on. Like this weirdo.
Dante read his expression right. "And so you made me the Devil of Downland? I hope it was worth it. For your sake."
Caleb bowed his head, and Dante walked past him, through the knights, who shoved each other hastily out of his way, and to the graffitied wall of the abandoned toilets.
"This is to make sure you do not use this to harm to someone," Dante said, and smashed the brick into the wall with a single, bare hand.
The brick turned to dust. The graffiti smeared in the colour of pastel red.
"I will not take your toy guns. But I have turned my back on you, Caleb. We will not speak again," Dante added, and then left the park the way he came, leaving the loyal knights of Camelot, and the trees of the Racehound, behind him.
aba Mamba watched the entire scene unfold in front of him, and even he didn't quite believe what he had just seen.
He spotted a few onlookers begin to gather now, and his frustration returned. Bringing attention to his spot, and for what? So, Dante could make a bigger fool out of the fools.
Angelo had been right about Dante.
Baba Mamba made his way out of the park, without being seen.
And Angelo had been right about him, too.
ara stared at Dante walk past him without any sign of recognition.
That wasn't what surprised him, this time, though.
He had overheard the entire conversation. So, this was the Serpent? The Sicilian he'd been hired to kill? The church-going Satanist that donated food to his community? The peado that he had just seen show kindness and mercy to a thug about to brick him, who he refused to have sex with?
That the man was gay was about the only thing the brief got right. Sure, he wasn't too enamoured with homosexuality, but that was no reason to kill a man. At least, he wouldn't kill a man for it. Not without good reason.
He didn't believe this man had murdered his neighbour, either.
But there was something that troubled Dara even more. This Dante had strength, and training. He could fight, yet he didn't brandish it about like the sword of Damocles. He was polite, and showed kindness to weakness. He didn't abuse the powers God gave him.
Without even testing him, Dante had passed the O'Malley Mercy test.
He had known men on the street that preyed on the weak. He despised that sort of abuse. Any sort of abuse. He despatched their kind without a Hail Mary.
Dara frowned. He was not best pleased, and lost in thought, he made his way back to the pub.
He had a job to do, however. This was a fuck up, but he had a track record to maintain. He had come here to kill Dante, so Dante had to die. Cillian was going to have to get his free pastries from elsewhere.
That English pair had a lot of explaining to do, though.
God save the Queen, indeed.
Published 12 May, 2026
