The Devil Inside

by D. L. Hicks

  Jack nodded, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head as he chewed on a mouthful of steak, brows furrowed, eyes soft.

  ‘I don’t want to say too much, but we had cause to go there and speak to the owner about our victims, to check for CCTV and that sort of thing.’

  ‘You spoke to Corey then?’ Jack said as he spooned the noodle salad onto his plate.

  ‘Yeah, we did,’ Charlotte said. ‘He was … semi-helpful? He said he’s going to check on a few things for us that we need. You’ve met him then? I guess what I really want to know is what your take on him is.’

  Placing his cutlery down on his plate, Jack looked thoughtful. ‘Why do you ask? He’s not a suspect, is he?’

  ‘Shit no,’ Charlotte answered, quick to douse that fire before it flared. ‘We’ve heard some stories and I wondered what you thought, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s good – I don’t like selling cars to crooks if I can help it,’ Jack said, relaxing back into his chair. ‘He’s been in the dealership looking to buy a couple of Suzuki Vitaras to use as promotional vehicles for the gym – he hasn’t ordered anything yet, but I think he’s keen. I’ve probably met him two or three times. He’s a bit full on for my liking, but that’s not unusual for a fitness freak. He’s a close talker too, one of those blokes who gets right up in your face, y’know? But he’s okay in small doses, I suppose. And if he buys a couple of cars off me, I’ll like him even more.’

  Charlotte sipped her wine. ‘And his clients? The women in particular. Any common reason why they left him and came to you – apart from the obvious?’ She glanced slyly at his bare chest.

  Jack flashed a grin, lacing his hands behind his head and striking his best Calvin Klein pose. ‘I’ve got no idea what you mean.’

  A laugh bubbled out of Charlotte, and she tossed the salt shaker at him, satisfied when it thumped into his chest. ‘Don’t be a wanker, just answer.’

  ‘Well, aside from the better views, there were a couple of girls who said they were a bit “creeped out” by him.’

  ‘Creeped out? How so?’

  ‘Just his vibe, I think. A little bit too hands on maybe. Nothing specific, but I got the impression maybe he asked a few too many questions, got a bit too personal. You want to make your clients feel special and like they’re your focus when you’re with them, but it’s a fine line – and it sounds like he might have overstepped it now and then. Actually, now that I think about it, he did try to kiss one of the girls, but she put a stop to it pretty quickly. She said he was apologetic and probably just misread the situation. Whatever happened, he needs to be careful with that type of shit – word travels fast in a small town.’

  Charlotte considered Jack’s words, adding them to the file she kept in her head on Corey Garsell – a file that was thickening by the hour. She gulped down the remainder of her wine, feeling the two glasses she had now drunk mixing with the anti-nausea medication she had taken earlier, giving her an unintended buzz. Or was it intended? She felt lightheaded, and rested her hands in her lap as she took in the surrounds, a comfortable silence falling between them.

  Was tonight the night? Perhaps it was the wine, or the warmth, but the evening now seemed full of uninhibited possibilities. Charlotte’s reverie was disturbed as a magpie landed on the back of the vacant chair next to her and cawed at her hungrily, it’s red eye glistening as it stared her down. She withdrew a spiralled noodle from the bowl and held it out, beckoning the bird closer. Its wings fluttered with indecision, risk versus reward causing it to falter, desperate to eat but still aware of the absolute danger. Warbling, it took the plunge, swooping in and snatching the food before flapping away to perch on the towering side fence.

  Charlotte’s gaze returned to Jack.

  They were alone and the night was still. The potent chemical cocktail in her system held her rational thoughts prisoner, hijacking her common sense and heightening her desire. Unable to take her eyes from his, she could feel the electricity zapping between them, sense her skin flushing in response to his stare.

  She rose from her seat and walked to the half-open glass sliding door into the house. One glance back over her shoulder was all Jack needed. In a flash he was behind her, his body pressing against her as they stepped in tandem through the opening.

  In the kitchen, Charlotte spun and leant against the bench as her hands desperately sought him out – any part of him, she simply craved the contact. There were no words, only the sound of their bodies colliding. Her head was spinning, the world tilting, she wrapped her arms around him, his lips on hers. Jack’s hands ran down her back, exploring, her own hands on his bare muscular chest.

  He kissed her neck, then nibbled on her earlobe. She heard herself moan, an out-of-body expression of pleasure that she never wanted to end.

  Jack unbuttoned her shirt and tugged it over her head, before pulling her body against him. Reaching behind her, he clumsily unclasped her bra, and allowed it to fall to the floor. Taking a step back, he stopped to admire her, his liquid eyes dark with desire. Despite her own need, Charlotte felt embarrassment swell as she stood semi-naked before him, and her arm snaked its way up her body to cover her breasts.

  It was always this way for her when it came to sex, desire waging a constant battle against shyness. Give and take, show and conceal, enjoyment and remorse. Now though, her illness too was pitted against her need for love and human contact. As her hands moved to conceal her breasts, her fingers brushed her nipple, and a gasp escaped her mouth.

  Jack let out a groan and stepped back into her. His hands were around her slim waist and he hoisted her onto the bench, spreading her legs and positioning himself between them as his tongue explored her mouth. She pressed against him, legs wrapped around his body, feet crossed at the small of his back, pressing him back into her. Their bodies moved together, grinding against one another, deep murmurs escaping them both. Charlotte knew Jack was enjoying this every bit as much as she was – she could feel it. Arching her back, she flung her head away from him for a second, desperate to catch her breath, her head buzzing, her inhibitions eroding away. She felt like she was about to explode.

  Her arms propped behind her and Jack’s head buried in her chest, Charlotte glanced down at him, opening her eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever.

  And then it happened.

  She saw herself in that moment of time – every inch of her shuddering body – locked in an embrace with her lover. As Jack kissed his way down her tummy, his fingers fumbling at the button of her shorts, she caught a glimpse of the small, dotted scar that ran down the outside curve of her left breast. A thin white line, barely even visible.

  That was all it took.

  Like a bucket of arctic water to the face, her mind cleared and her senses returned, flooding her brain.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  ‘No … Stop, I can’t.’ It took all of her mental strength to push Jack away, secure her pants and slide off the bench. The sight of the scar had brought home to her all that she still kept hidden from the man she was falling for. Jack had obviously skimmed over it in his haste to please her, but as the fog lifted from her pheromone-addled brain, she realised that her physical scars were only the tip of the iceberg.

  Though her mind had stopped spinning, her legs still trembled as Charlotte clutched at the crook of her left arm to conceal the puncture mark and residual bruise from her last bout of chemo – something else she had always been careful to cover up. Not to mention the wig – how the hell could she have hidden that if they’d ended up in the bedroom? Without it, she was a freak show, a bald shadow of a human being. Is that what she wanted Jack to see, how she wanted him to perceive her? Bathing in the afterglow of their love, rolling over only to discover her with a crooked wig concealing a barren scalp?

  She couldn’t deal with that, not now. Maybe not ever.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?’ Jack said, his hands raised in surrender. One eyebrow cocked, he gazed at Charl
otte, his expression concerned. ‘I thought you were enjoying it … I’m sorry if I misread something.’

  ‘No, I was, believe me.’ Charlotte slid her chambray shirt back over her head, flustered. ‘I … look, it’s not your fault, and it’s not what you think. Now is just not the right time. Not because I don’t want to, it’s because … Well, it’s just because.’

  There was an awkward silence as Jack bent down and picked up a tea towel from where it had fallen on the floor. He folded it neatly and placed it back on the bench. Charlotte embraced him, but their bodies, which only minutes before had been melded into one, were now an awkward jumble.

  ‘I could finish you off if you like …’ She ran her fingers across the front of his shorts, kissing his cheek gently. Surely she couldn’t mess that up?

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jack said, his voice low. ‘Really, I’m fine. Look, it’s probably best if I left.’

  He collected his belongings from the bench, tossing his T-shirt over his shoulder. On his way to the door, he placed one hand on the side of Charlotte’s head and kissed her hair.

  ‘I’ll call you …’ Charlotte said, barely able to lift her eyes from the floor. Shame was a heavy burden.

  ‘Not if I call you first,’ Jack replied before closing the door behind him. She heard his car engine roar to life in the driveway and listened as the noise faded into the distance, warm salty tears streaming down her face.

  CHAPTER 24

  Another Sunday, 1987

  Why did a week at school go so fast, especially in summer?

  I had grown to hate Sunday mornings, but after what felt like no time, there I was again, entering the front door of the church half an hour before everyone else. That was the lot of an altar boy – an early arrival and a late finish at every service.

  I walked down the central aisle, the large painting of the crucifix glaring down at me from above the altar. That painting always freaked me out – everywhere I went, the eyes of Jesus were looking at me, watching my every movement.

  I wondered if Father felt the same way when he looked at that picture. If it made me feel bad for things I’d done – like not taking out the garbage or forgetting to make my bed – did it make Father feel bad for the things he did?

  I guess he just didn’t bother looking at it.

  ‘Hey, mate.’ Ben was waving to me from the corridor that led down to the priests’ rooms at the back of the church. He was still in his normal clothes like me, which meant that I wasn’t late, which was a relief. Father didn’t like us being late – yet another thing that made him angry.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, my voice echoing in the empty chamber of the church. I jogged over to him, my sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor before being muffled by the carpet. ‘How are ya?’

  ‘I’m okay. I was getting worried – thought you were going to be late, or that I was going to be here by myself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to you,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. We both knew that being the only one here was the worst possible scenario.

  ‘Morning, boys.’ Father’s deep voice boomed down the corridor. ‘Come on down – every minute is precious you know.’ He was standing at the doorway to his room, motioning us towards him with a beckoning hand. We dragged our feet down the corridor, Ben just in front of me walking as slowly as he could. ‘Spark up, boys,’ Father said, pressing himself back on the doorframe to allow us to pass. There wasn’t really enough room for us to squeeze by – it nearly made me sick.

  It was the same story most weeks. Father would stand there exactly as he was now, watching us as we got our robes ready. The other priest just stayed in the corner, not saying a word.

  ‘Now, boys, God admires children who can do what they are told without question – that is called obeying, and that’s what God wants of all of us,’ Father said as he slipped his own ceremonial gown over his head. ‘Now, before we start getting everything ready, there’s something we need to discuss …’

  CHAPTER 25

  For Father Joseph Callaghan, there was no option but for life to continue on. He was still a priest, he still had a parish full of people looking to him for guidance, and he still believed he had the ability and experience to chart them on a course to a better life. The events of the previous day had shaken him, but his faith remained intact. He looked at it from a spiritual perspective, seeing it in much the same light as the manner in which Jesus himself had been tested when he walked among his people on earth.

  Was he scared of what might lie ahead? Of course. He was a man, after all. And while his relationship with God might allow him to handle things a little better than average, he couldn’t deny the fear. The mere thought of jail time made his skin crawl.

  He was fortunate that his daily grind had to continue – people depended on him, and that took his mind off things, permitted him to focus on others. There were masses to prepare, parishioners to visit, church group meetings to support. Confession was also something he was required to engage in as part of his weekly duties, and it was on the agenda the evening after his arrest.

  Sitting inside the confessional booth with the light on, he flicked through the most recent copy of the parish’s weekly newsletter, his thoughts a million miles away. The strong smell of teak sat with him, the old-wood scent reassuring, taking his mind back to the hundreds of people he had counselled over the years. Although he was worried how the scandal of his arrest might affect the number of attendees at Mass, he knew most Catholics had a pretty thick skin, and he believed – or hoped – they would give him the benefit of the doubt, for the moment at least.

  As he sat pondering his future, the ding of the bell sounded. Someone had entered the other side of the confessional, ready to acknowledge their sins. Sitting up straight and clearing his throat, Joseph could see the outline of a man through the lattice, and he waited for him to kick things off.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  As soon as he heard the strange, rasping voice, Joseph’s heart fluttered up his throat. In the flurry of everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten about the odd man who had taken off so suddenly at the last confessional. But he had returned. ‘How long since your last confession?’ Joseph asked, following the script, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

  ‘You’re a smart man, Father. I think you know the answer to that one, or have you forgotten already?’

  Joseph found himself grinning at the response. It seemed he was going to be involved in a battle of wits again. ‘I haven’t forgotten, but I would never presume something as important as that,’ he said. ‘Many people come through these doors to cleanse their sins, so I can never be certain.’

  ‘Well, you may recall we touched on the matter of confidentiality in the confessional. Do you remember?’

  Clearing his throat in an automatic response to the speaker’s hoarse voice, Joseph answered cautiously. ‘You left in a hurry that night. Are you better prepared to ask for forgiveness for your troubles tonight?’

  ‘Prepared?’ The pitch of the man’s voice rose slightly. ‘I don’t know about that, but I’ll have a crack. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Joseph noticed the dark silhouette move a little closer to the perforated barrier that separated them, blocking the display of light that danced through the pattern like fairy dust. ‘But before you start, I need to ask you a question, if I may?’

  ‘Go for it,’ the man said. He sounded surprised and the smirk was clear in his voice. ‘I’m an open book.’

  ‘A few days ago, I had a visitor to one of my services. He only stayed a short time during Mass before disappearing. But he didn’t leave without a trace; this person left something behind, a message of sorts, that was placed, alight, on the church steps. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?’ Joseph was met with silence, the man apparently considering the implications of what he’d been told before answering.

 
; ‘You say it was left alight?’ he said, almost mockingly. ‘You mean burning?’

  ‘Yes, burning,’ Joseph answered, feeling his anger rise, the memory of the smell searing his nostrils. The mix of flame and faeces was not something he was likely to forget in a hurry. He sniffed. ‘A flaming package of excrement left on the steps of this building. Absolutely disgusting, not to mention dangerous. I had forty or fifty parishioners trying to leave at the time; men, women, children – churchgoers just trying to enjoy their day. It’s unacceptable. As if this community hasn’t suffered enough.’

  ‘Indeed, it is unacceptable,’ the man said. ‘But it seems someone was sending you a pretty clear message, Father. It would seem someone isn’t happy with your work. The church has lots of enemies doesn’t it? Even in a small town like this shithole. But it had nothing to do with me.’

  Joseph exhaled, frustrated. The church had no enemies; maybe the odd atheist who would rant and rave, trying to engage him in a theological debate in the main street once in a blue moon, but nobody who was capable of something like that. Lacking proof, he had to accept this man’s denial – but not without suspicion, and plenty of it. ‘Okay. Let’s get back to why you’re here then, shall we? As I said, you can talk about anything in here – my lips are sealed. This is your chance to be honest without any recriminations – in this world, anyway.’

  ‘Of course your lips are sealed, Father, of course. But I guess we’ll see about that won’t we. Well, where to start then? I may as well drop the biggest bombshell first, I suppose – no point beating about the bush. So … how shall I put this? You know those girls who’ve been murdered? I see you’ve been accused of having something to do with that. Well, let’s just say I know you had nothing to do with it. You’re an innocent man, Father. Well, innocent of those accusations anyway.’

  Joseph’s heart jumped in his chest, his pulse quickening. Was this some sort of joke, or did this guy really have evidence that would get him off the hook? He rubbed his hands together, perspiration seeping from his pores. ‘That’s … that’s great news, but it’s probably something more appropriate for the police, not the confessional. When we’re done here, I urge you to head straight to the authorities and tell them whatever it is you know. That is your responsibility. It … it’s the right thing to do.’ He paused, excited by the news that someone could help him out of this mess. But he still had a job to do. ‘What I am interested in, however, is how that fits in with you and your failing in the eyes of God. Refusing to provide information that could help the police catch a murderer is not ideal, but it’s easily fixed and isn’t the greatest of sins.’